


Something of Beauty

by whimsicule



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fashion AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fashion graduate Leo lands an internship with designer-of-the-moment Xavi Hernández.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1: The title is taken from an Alexander McQueen quote, who is greatly missed and will forever remain a fashion genius and one of my biggest inspirations.
> 
> A/N 2: Yes, this is fiction and therefore not true. However, everything that happens is based on my own experiences and thus authentic. Any questions, don't hesitate to message me. Do enjoy.

**Fashion is** **not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.**

_Coco Chanel_

***

 

The glass doors slide open and Leo has to suppress the urge to force them shut again. He’s not ready and too early anyway and the white walls and high ceilings look so daunting that he just wants to walk back out again. He’d told Kun he wasn’t nervous; and Leo’s not – he’s terrified.

 

But he can do this, he can, Leo keeps telling himself as he approaches the front desk. The guy behind it looks up, seems to be not much older than him. Spiked hair, a bit of a stubble, a black button-down shirt – it looks expensive, well made, Leo likes the decorative darts in the shoulder seam. The guy throws him a smile that could’ve come straight out of an advertisement for toothpaste. Leo is a bit more timid in his approach.

 

“Hello, um,” he has to take a deep breath; the guy’s smile doesn’t fade. “I’m the new intern.”

 

“Awesome,” is the very enthusiastic reply and Leo briefly wonders how someone can be this energetic at seven in the morning. “Andrés told me you were coming. You’re early though.” He rounds the front desk, pulls at Leo’s arm, shakes his hand, still smiling. He’s a fair bit taller than him.

 

“Yeah, sorry, I –”

 

“Nah, don’t worry, it’s good that you are, we’re drowning here. Come on, I’ll take you to Andrés.”

 

“Thanks, um –”

 

“Cesc,” the guy answers immediately and they start walking towards a narrow staircase. “I’m Puyi’s assistant. He’s the Studio Manager. His office is on the ground floor. I’m usually somewhere around too, or the front desk, or wherever they need me. First floor.”

 

Leo sees a long corridor, many doors, one at the end is open; he can hear somebody yell in a harsh voice. Otherwise it’s still quiet, there are no people apart from them and he appreciates the silence before the storm, notices little details that increase his heart rate – a framed cover of _Vogue_ that shows a stunning bias-cut dress, a few rolls of fabric stashed in a corner, a garment rail carrying some of last season’s pieces. Leo can feel his fingertips tingling.

 

“First floor is PR,” Cesc continues to explain as they round a corner and ascend the second flight of stairs. “Victor holds the reins there, keeps the press entertained and stuff. Sometimes it’s like a zoo. And here’s the second floor. I guess this will be your playground.”

 

The second floor is one open space, flooded with light, filled with large tables. A few empty rails line the wall with the panelled windows. On the opposite side, there is a massive shelving unit reaching the ceiling, filled with what looks like one hundred types of fabric. Mannequins are in one corner, some chairs and steaming boards, chests of drawers and boxes and rolls with pattern-paper. Leo can smell freshly pressed calico and can’t help the warmth spreading through his chest.

 

Cesc gives him a soft nudge and Leo snaps out of it. “Enjoy it while it’s peaceful. Give it one hour and you won’t know the difference between this and hell.” He’s grinning despite his words and points towards the only door on this floor. “That’s Andrés’ office. I’m sure he’s already got lots of things for you to do.”

 

As Cesc knocks, Leo takes another look around. There are more stairs leading up to the third and probably final floor of the building. He can only guess what’s up there. And only the thought of it makes his skin crawl with excitement. But he stays composed. He knows of the importance of a good first impression.

 

A quiet “Come in” interrupts his thoughts and he follows Cesc into the small and cramped office. A pale man – Andrés – is sitting behind a slim metal desk. He’s dressed in all black, but as he gets up, Leo can see his bright red socks.

 

“Hello,” he says with a soft smile and an equally soft voice. “I’m Andrés. It’s nice to have you on board, Leo. How are you doing? Did you find the studio alright?”

 

Leo tries to smile back, but his facial muscles feel stiff and he’s surprised that he manages to move his lips enough to produce an answer. “I’m good, thanks. Still remembered how to get here from the interview.”

 

“Ah, right, who was that with again? Dani, right?” Leo nods and Andrés averts his gaze to Cesc. “Can you tell Victor that we need to reschedule the interview with _L’Uomo_? And somebody needs to run to the factory to pick up the coats in navy and camel. Xavi wants to change the sleeves.”

 

Cesc’s smile falters and he lets out an annoyed sigh. “Again?”

 

Leo catches Andrés slightly rolling his eyes, lips twitching. “Well, you know how he is. You can get one of the interns to do it.”

 

“Nah, ‘s okay, I’ll go straight away. Or do you need me for anything else?” He motions towards the door.

 

Andrés shakes his head. “Not for now. Try to be back before nine, or he’ll – you know.”

 

Cesc cringes. Leo wonders what Andrés is insinuating. “I’ll be quick, no worries. See you around, Leo.”

 

“See you,” Leo offers, but Cesc is already out the door and down the stairs, probably perfectly used to the quick pace with which the entire industry operates. A hand is put on his shoulder, assuring and firm.

 

“Come on, I’ll give you a quick tour,” Andrés says and directs him towards the staircase again, talking in a clear yet quiet voice. “I’m sure Cesc has already given you an idea of how the building is divided up. Ground floor is mainly studio related stuff, organisation of orders and factories.” They’re back on the first floor and Andrés points into various directions. “Kitchen is on the left, fridge, coffee machine, everything there. Lunch time’s – well. We don’t really have a set slot, just have it whenever there is time.”

 

He keeps walking, opens a few doors so that Leo can have a peak inside.

 

“That’s where we keep the garments for anything press-related, then there’s a small conference room, Dani’s office, Abi’s and down the end is Victor, head of PR and –”

 

They are just about to turn back when one door is opened and a tall guy stalks towards them, black trousers, crisp white shirt; the sleeves are rolled up and reveal tattooed arms. He looks intimidating and not very happy – Victor, Leo assumes.

 

“Andrés!” he calls out and comes to a halt, towering over both of them. Leo can see an earring glistening. “What the fuck? He wants to reschedule again? I’ve already pushed the interview back a month, they’re going to be more than pissed.”

 

Leo has to resist the urge to take a few steps back, Andrés looks unfazed – but understanding.

 

“I’ve told him the same, but you know how Xavi is. He doesn’t want to interrupt work just for an interview.”

 

“Just for –”, Victor’s face falls. “Fucking hell, it’s the best exposure he can get before Paris. He’ll just have to deal with it.”

 

“Do you want me to tell him –”

 

The head of PR waves him off. “No, it’s fine. I’ll pull some strings, put it back another two weeks. But that’s final. I mean it. Tell him to suck it up and crawl out of his cave for an hour. And tell him that the Alcántaras are coming in next week.”

 

Leo raises his eyebrows at the familiarity of the name and he shoots Andrés a look, who doesn’t seem too pleased. “Wonderful.” The sarcasm is all too evident. “That’s going to cheer him up. Oh,” he adds as an afterthought. “That’s Leo by the way. New intern. I’m showing him around.”

 

Victor’s forehead creases a bit and Leo can feel him scan his entire being within seconds. There’s no smile on his face. “Right. Anyway. I have to make some calls. And he better not change his mind again.”

 

With that, he walks off again. The door to his office slams shut; the frames on the wall vibrate against the concrete.

 

“He’s just stressed, usually he’s nice,” Andrés excuses his colleague once the pictures have stopped rattling. “But really, you couldn’t have come at a better time. We need all the help we can get.”

 

Once they’re back on the second floor, Leo can’t help but look up, where a sole white, wooden door is shielding off everything that is going on behind. Of course Andrés notices his gaze after a few beats of silence pass between them.

 

“That’s Xavi’s atelier,” he explains and softly pulls Leo away from the stairs, sits down at one of the pattern tables and gestures for Leo to mirror him. Andrés folds his hands in front of him, the sleeves of his jumper crinkle – probably cashmere. “Don’t ever go up there unless specifically told to. He’s quite… specific when it comes to his work. He hardly ever comes down here. But when he does, just – don’t be offended when he doesn’t talk to you, he’s –”

 

“Don’t worry,” Leo feels like he has to stop Andrés there. “I won’t.” He’s perfectly aware of his position and the fact that no designer keeps a track of who his interns are and what they are doing. And Leo doesn’t mind. He’s experienced worse things than being ignored.

 

“Okay. Good.” Andrés seems relieved. “Let’s get cracking then. We had some jersey delivered that needs to be put on rolls and once everyone else gets here we can assign you some other tasks.”

 

Leo can’t wait to get started.

 

 

 

 

There’s quiet music playing from the radio and the atmosphere is nice, oddly relaxed even though there are people rushing around, searching for things, searching for others. Leo is sitting at one of the tables with the two other interns, Pedro and Mario. They have about two hundred shiny buttons spread out in front of them – all of which need to go onto twenty coats hanging on a rail in a corner.

 

“I hate buttons,” Mario groans after his thread rips for the third time in probably ten minutes. The young German looks desperate. “I fucking hate buttons.”

 

Pedro chuckles, eyes firmly fixed on his needle piercing the thick coating wool. “Everybody hates buttons. Right, Leo?”

 

“Almost everybody. I think my tutor at University had a fetish,” he says.

 

“Fetish?” Mario pulls a face. “Oh dear.”

 

“But you’re graduated now, aren’t you?” Pedro asks, still not looking up from the coat in his lap.

 

Leo nods. “A month ago. I just moved back here from London.”

 

“Central Saint Martin’s?”

 

“Westminster,” Leo replies.

 

“I am the only one still at Uni, huh? I wish I was already done with it too,” Mario sighs and starts his second attempt at sewing button number eight.

 

“Enjoy it while you can,” Pedro dryly comments, finally lifting his gaze to meet Mario’s eyes. “Seriously. Because out here – it’s a nuthouse.”

 

Leo couldn’t agree more. As if on cue, a door slams open and smashes against the wall, producing a noise that echoes through the entire studio, followed by a shout.

 

“Andrés!”

 

The addressee drops everything and almost runs into Bastian, one of the patterncutters, as he shoots past all of them and is up the stairs to the third floor in what seems less than a second. Everybody stays frozen to the spot and a few moments pass between them, exchanging looks with raised eyebrows and pulled faces.

 

Pedro is the one to break the silence. “Told you,” he grins. “An absolute nuthouse.”

 

 

***

 

 

Andrés closes the door behind him and finds Cesc trying to disappear into a wall. There’s a rail with the coats from the factory in the middle of the large room. Xavi is standing in front of it and it seems like he’s trying to set them on fire with his eyes. Andrés sighs inwardly and tries to signal Cesc that he’s allowed to leave. Once he understands, Andrés can practically see the load that falls off his shoulders. Cesc is gone within a second. Andrés doesn’t blame him. He’d rather turn around again too.

 

Instead, he steps closer, cautiously watching Xavi. To say that the other looks unhappy would be the understatement of the season – and the last ones too.

 

“Is there a problem with the coats?” he asks quietly, but he can already guess that the factory must have messed something up. Again.

 

Xavi turns to face him. “Of course there’s a problem, why else would I call you?” He takes a coat off the rail and tosses it in Andrés’ direction who has trouble catching it. “They fucked up the lining. First they stain the fabric, and then they’re too stupid to insert a quilted lining. If I change the pattern like I had planned, they’re going to mess that up too. Fucking idiots!”

 

Andrés quickly inspects the inside of the coat to understand exactly what Xavi is talking about. He sees the slight pull at the seams, a missing pleat, not allowing any arm movement once the coat is worn – a beginner’s mistake. Which makes it even more frustrating.

 

“Are those the ones that are supposed to go to _Harvey Nichols_?”

 

Xavi is grinding his teeth. “Yes. We can’t have this order delayed and I can’t take any more of this careless screwing up. I’ve got a collection to develop and this is just –”

 

“Unacceptable, I know,” Andrés quickly interrupts before Xavi has the chance to talk himself into an even gloomier mood. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. I’ll send one of the patterncutters to the factory to figure out the problem, we’ve got enough people here to cover.”

 

He walks over to the rail and puts the coat back on its hanger, throws a look towards his boss, friend – Andrés doesn’t dare to think further than that. He looks tired, scruffy, a growing stubble gracing his face that seems slimmer than usually; Andrés knows that he forgets to eat. Xavi lets out a groan and runs his hands over his eyes, shoulders tense. Andrés resists the urge to put a hand on his neck.

 

“Don’t worry,” he repeats and still feels like he hasn’t said it enough. “Let me take care of the coats and _Harvey Nichols_ , you just go back to the collection.” Taking a few steps back, his eyes flicker to one of the walls that is covered with pictures and fabric swatches. “The final colours are stunning. And it will be great. So don’t worry.” Andrés curls his fingers around the door handle. “And don’t forget, you’re meeting Villa for lunch – at twelve. You know how he’s like when you forget.”

 

Xavi rolls his eyes and dips his head back, looks towards the ceiling. “He’s such a fucking drama queen sometimes…” he mumbles more to himself than to Andrés.

 

Andrés has to suppress a grin and leaves the atelier, closing the door behind him. Then he snorts out a laugh.

 

“You’re one to talk…”

 

 

***

 

 

Leo almost drives a pin through his fingertip when a door slams again a few hours later and there are quick footsteps echoing down the stairs. He can feel Pedro still next to him and carefully lifts his gaze, not his head. A moment later, he can see _him_ and subconsciously holds his breath. It’s only a few seconds in which Xavi passes through the edge of the studio – messy black hair that points into every direction, a long patterned scarf that drags on the floor, a buckled coat, heavy boots. It still leaves Leo with a sense of – he can’t even describe it. Xavi is the personification of everything Leo wants, what he dreams of and what he strives for; what he’d happily sacrifice anything for.

 

The designer doesn’t spare them a single look, keeps his eyes firmly fixed on a blackberry in his hand, muttering something to Andrés who is only half a step behind him; the next moment they’re down the stairs and out of sight. The people in the studio are released from their paralysis.

 

“I swear,” Pedro all but whispers in his ear, “every time he comes down here my heart just stops. He’s just –” And he cuts himself off, probably not knowing what superlative would best describe Xavi.

 

Leo doesn’t know either.

 

 

 

 

 

The studio is almost empty when Cesc walks in, carrying a few boxes that appear to be pizza cartons. Behind him is a guy of equal height with black jeans and a ripped t-shirt, neatly trimmed dark hair and stubble. He flops down on a chair as Cesc drops the cartons down in front of them.

 

“Lunch,” he announces with a grin.

 

Leo pulls coat he’s working on closer to his body. He thinks of oily stains and the nightmare of removing tomato sauce from fabric and out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Pedro and Mario mirroring his movement.

 

“Pizza on Puyi,” the other guy adds with a wink. “We should really bet against him more often.”

 

Cesc lets out a roaring laughter before setting his eyes on Leo. “Come on, guys, everyone else has gone to lunch. Those coats can wait.” He pulls up a chair. “And we have to make good use of the time Xavi and Andrés aren’t here. Oh, and Leo, that’s Pip, he’s from Argentina too.”

 

Leo’s eyebrows go up. “How do you –”

 

Cesc grins. “I’ve read you CV. Was on Puyi’s desk. Pretty impressive.”

 

He whistles, then opens the cartons and hands out napkins. The smell is divine and Leo doesn’t realize that he’s actually starving until he takes the first bite.

 

“Victor is gone too,” Pip says after a while with a mouth full of pizza. “They’ve all gone somewhere. I feel like the unpopular girl that didn’t get asked out to the prom.”

 

Pedro laughs at that and almost spits crumbs over the table. Leo quickly gathers the remaining coats and puts them on the rail in a safe distance – just in case. When he sits back down, Cesc shoots him a flashing smile, then turns towards Pip.

 

“Sad that you can’t wear your dress out, huh?”

 

Pip groans. “For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t a dress, you ignorant fuck. That was a Rick Owens tunic and I was wearing trousers with it. And it did get me laid, so shut up about it.”

 

Pedro laughs some more and even Leo can’t hold back a smile – plus, he likes Rick Owens and he did like last season’s tunics. Cesc’s face makes it even funnier.

 

“Fuck, you did? Please don’t tell me it was that Portuguese idiot.”

  
“Nah,” Pip negates. “You remember the stylist from i-D?” He looks smug.

 

“Garay? You bastard.” Cesc finishes off his first slice and wipes his mouth with a napkin. Then his eyes are on Leo again and Leo briefly wonders if that’s just because he’s the newbie. It’s not that he particularly minds the attention; he’s just not that comfortable with it. “Please tell me I can go chick hunting with you.”

 

Leo ducks his head a little, tries to sound apologetic for something he isn’t really sorry for. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

 

Cesc sighs theatrically and turns his attention to Mario.

 

“I’ve got a boyfriend back home,” he quickly says, lightly blushing.

 

Pedro grins. “Girlfriend. Sorry.”

 

Pip puts a supportive hand on Cesc’s shoulder. “Maybe you should consider swimming to the other shore.”

 

“You just want to get in my pants,” Cesc retorts and Pip pulls back a little, in mock-observation, then pulls a face.

 

“I’m not desperate.”

 

The dried tomato Cesc throws in his direction misses by a mile. “Go fuck yourself.”

 

“Unlike you, I’ve got someone to do that for me.”

 

Leo can see Pedro pressing his hands to his mouth, quieting his laughter, face red, almost Valentino-red and he can see Mario biting his lip forcefully, holding onto a slice of pizza like his life depends on it.

He thinks he’s going to like it here.

 

 

 

 

When Leo gets home it’s already dark. Kun is lounging on the couch, watching some sitcom on TV; he doesn’t look up when Leo enters the room and drops his bag on the floor.

 

“There’s pizza in the kitchen,” he informs him without any other form of greeting.

 

“I had pizza for lunch.”

 

Leo kicks off his boots and lets himself fall onto the couch, onto Kun, who yelps under the sudden unexpected pressure.

 

“Suit yourself. Picky, picky.” He sounds breathless, most likely puts extra emphasis on the fact that he finds it hard to breathe – Leo knows he’s not heavy. Kun moves his body slightly so that Leo fits perfectly against him and brings his arms up around his neck, pulling him closer. “First day went alright then?”

 

“Yeah,” Leo answers, burying his nose in Kun’s shirt, smelling his cologne – earthy, familiar. “It was good.”

 

“No crush on the boss then?”

 

Leo knows he’s only joking, but he still feels an unpleasant shiver running down his spine. “No.”

 

“Good. Because we need to find you a normal boyfriend this time.”

 

His hands play with the soft spikes of Kun’s hair. The strands are not long enough to twist around his fingers anymore. “I don’t need a boyfriend,” he mutters, feeling heavy and tired, exhaustion from a thirteen-hour day finally kicking in. “I have fashion.”

 

Kun snorts. “Fashion can’t fuck you though.”

 

Now it’s Leo’s time to laugh. “It can. Believe me.”

 

 

 

 

The first day turns out to be a peaceful exception. Leo doesn’t think he’s ever worked this hard in his life and it’s invigorating, exhilarating, breathing life and energy into him until he’s buzzing on the inside. He feels blisters forming on his fingertips until they eventually harden up, getting used to thin pinheads piercing into them and he’s added a few burn marks to the collection on his hands.

 

But it’s good, just so good because Andrés pays attention to what he does and assigns him new tasks, challenges him and his skills and he soaks everything up, picks up little tricks and observes new methods and he’s sure he’s already learned more than during an entire year at University.

 

Leo also notices the pattern in which everybody seems to operate in the studio; set rules that apply to everything and certain ways to behave in different situations. Xavi doesn’t leave his atelier and Leo guesses that he probably doesn’t even go home at the end of the day. Andrés operates as his right hand man, his messenger, cog between two operating parts. Usually the door slams open a few times each day, force varying, as well as the pitch of Xavi’s voice and by now Leo has gotten quite good at guessing the severity of the arisen problem.

 

He can also tell from the expression on Andrés’ face whenever he leaves the atelier again.

 

The only other people to ever dare to venture up there besides the saintly assistant are the Studio Manager Puyi, Victor and the head patterncutter Javier. And even they don’t seem that keen on it. Leo thinks that Puyi is probably immune against anything Xavi – probably even literally – throws at him and Javier is calm and gets on with his job. Victor – well, that’s another thing.

 

From the one personal encounter Leo’s had with the head of Public Relations, he can guess that he has a short temper. And although he hasn’t met Xavi personally yet, Cesc has told him countless stories over lunch that have drawn a pretty clear picture. There is shouting and slamming of doors and more than once, Andrés has to interrupt the apparent argument by dragging Victor back to his office by his sleeves.

 

Leo isn’t sure what to think about their relationship, it seems explosive, but as Cesc tells him, “They actually love each other. Victor’s been here since the beginning. But neither likes to be wrong.”

 

He isn’t sure how to interpret that, but Leo doesn’t ponder on it. He’s learned to keep away from his superior’s personal stuff, especially after – well, he just decides not to think about it. It’s none of his business.

 

 

 

 

“Still no crush on the boss?”

 

Leo groans and purposefully drops his heavy bag on Kun’s stomach before dragging his tired self into the kitchen. He hears his best friend curse and reaches for a can of Coke.

 

“Fuck, Kun, will you stop that? I don’t even see him around,” he calls over into the living room, but Kun is already making his way over.

 

“What do you mean, you don’t see him?” He snatches the Coke out of Leo’s hand and takes a large gulp, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t you work for him?”

 

Leo sighs and reaches for another can. He hasn’t had anything to drink since lunchtime. “Yes, I work _for_ him, not _with_ him.”

 

“Is there a difference?”

 

“Of course,” Leo replies. “Xavi’s got more important things to do than deal with his interns.”

 

Kun pulls a face. “Sounds like a prick to me.” Then he takes another step, standing so close that their noses are almost touching and Leo has to blink. “But really, don’t hook up with him, he sounds like your type.”

 

Leo puts his flat palm against Kun’s face and pushes it away, stalking away towards their lounge again, flopping down on one of the armchairs. “I don’t have a type.”

 

Kun trails him and takes up the length of the couch again, eyes glued to the TV screen; some weird reality show, muted. “I’ve heard that before.”

 

Leo wants to argue, but it’s impossible to argue with Kun, so he just mutters a half-hearted “Whatever”, empties his drink and retires to his bedroom without another look back.

 

 

 

 

“Better lay low today,” Pedro tells Leo when he joins him in the kitchen for a cup of coffee. It’s not even 8 am, but he’s already heard an argument in the atelier on the third floor.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

Before Pedro can answer, Cesc darts into the small room and quietly, but quickly, shuts the door behind him. He looks tired, like he’s already been here for hours and hasn’t slept at all. Instantly reaching for the coffee, he sits down on one of the chairs and – after emptying his cup with lightning speed – buries his face in his hands. His hair doesn’t look as impeccable as usually.

 

“I’m just gonna hide in here for the rest of the day,” he groans, voice muffled by his own fingers now dragging down his cheeks. “Scrap that, I’m gonna hide in here for the rest of the season.”

 

Leo raises his eyebrows and shoots Pedro a questioning look.

 

“Factory screwed up again,” he answers in a low voice.

 

“And it’s my fucking fault.” Cesc lets out an angry groan. “I should’ve checked when I picked up the other coats, I should’ve done quality control, but fuck! I didn’t. Xavi is going to kill me…”

 

His forehead drops on the table and Leo and Pedro share a glance.

 

“Whom is he arguing with then?” Leo wonders, because if Cesc screwed up and Cesc is in _here_ , who is shouting up _there_?

 

“Victor,” Pedro says. “And Andrés. And Javier. And I think Dani and Puyi too.”

 

“All because of the factory?”

 

Cesc lifts his head again. “Fortunately, his anger is divided between a few things, or else I’d be dead by now.” Leo knows Cesc is being a bit overly dramatic. But he can’t blame him. He knows perfectly well how it feels to be the one to blame. “Puyi is there because of the factory and because we probably have to divert the entire order, Javier is in there because of a pattern that Xavi doesn’t agree with, Dani because the Alcántara brothers are supposed to come in today and Victor – I don’t even know, man. Andrés is saving our lives.”

 

Leo swallows, looks over to Cesc, feels sorry for him, sorry for them, because all of this combined just means more work, more stress and a strained mood in the studio and – well. It just plainly sucks when things go wrong.

 

Pedro grabs a box of sugar cubes and drops about a dozen into his cup. “What are the Alcántaras coming for?”

 

Cesc rubs his temples. “Fuck knows, Dani’s organized it. Stuff for some premiere or gala. Annoyed the shit out of Xavi.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Let’s just hope they’re not bringing their stylist with them. Smart-assery from Alonso and Xavi would slit his throat. Or mine.”

 

Leo thinks that Pedro’s suggestion to lay low is probably a good strategy to get through the day.

 

 

***

 

 

Andrés thinks it’s ironic that he actually thought this was going to be a good day when he’d woken up in the morning. Now it feels like they’re on the verge of Fashion World War 3. And he can understand Xavi’s frustration, he really can, but arguing isn’t going to change anything.

 

“So please,” Xavi grits his teeth, rubbing his temples, silver rings shining. There is nothing polite about his tone though. “Puyi, tell me, why the fuck are we still using this factory if they are entirely incapable of even producing the simplest of garments? “

 

“We haven’t had any problems with them in the past, but they’ve changed owners and now –”

 

“Then screw them,” Xavi interrupts. “Pull the order back, figure out a way to cover the costs and get your people to pay some fucking attention at the quality control. I can’t have my eyes on every bloody step of the process.”

 

Puyi quickly jots down some notes. He has a thick skin. He knows that Xavi doesn’t mean anything personal, just gets on with it and leaves the atelier to not waste any more time. As soon as Puyi is gone, Xavi turns to Victor, who cuts him off before the designer can say anything.

  
“I swear, Xavi, if you tell me to postpone the interview with _L’Uomo_ again, I –”

 

Andrés raises his hand slightly, tries to indicate to Victor that he better stop there and luckily Victor gets it, doesn’t finish the sentence, probably knows there’s no point.

 

“I don’t have time for this fucking interview,” Xavi replies sourly.

 

“Well,” Victor says, “you’ll have to make time then. It doesn’t have to be more than an hour and you don’t even have to be nice. For some reason, they seem to think you’re fashion’s last enigmatic mystery.”

 

Xavi pauses, thinks. “Fine. But they better not send Ramos, make sure to tell them that.” Moving on to Dani, he continues, “Tell Thiago and Rafinha that I don’t have time. Give them anything out of the pressroom – I don’t care. Or take them to the shop, whatever. But for goodness’ sake, tell them not to mix up the outfits again. And to get rid of those awful trainers. Seriously, we’re not in the nineties anymore.”

 

“Aye, boss,” Dani grins. “I’ll keep them away from you.” With that, he’s gone too.

 

The quietness that is drawn over the room like a blanket isn’t a comfortable one. It’s tense, unusually tense for this point of the season. But Andrés knows that there is more pressure this time, more eyes on Xavi and everything he does and he knows, he _knows_ that it’s getting to him, even though Xavi tries his best not to show it. There are more questions this time, more uncertainties and Andrés just wants everything to turn out for the better – he wants all this crap to be worth it eventually.

 

“So,” Xavi says after taking a deep breath, to calm himself, shield himself, maybe one has already become the other; Andrés isn’t sure. “The panelled dress, then. What happened this time? Masche?”

 

Javier clears his throat, steps forward and unfolds the pattern on Xavi’s desk.

 

“I’ve had one of the interns toile it up yesterday, but the heaviness of the fabric is pulling the neckline. So either we reduce some of the flare –”

 

“No.” Xavi’s eyes are fixed on the paper, scanning over the pattern, analysing it. Andrés knows he’s in his element. “And don’t even try to suggest shortening it. I’m not changing the skirt-length of the entire collection just because of one dress.” He takes a small notebook and quickly sketches a miniature version of the pattern in front of him, shortly ponders on it, then adds a few lines. “Here.” He slides it over to Javier. “Create a second panel that can go underneath, just around the shoulders. That should support it. Get that done for this afternoon. Toile it in that poly-chiffon.”

 

Javier nods, rolls up the pattern and leaves the atelier, Victor trailing closely behind. However, the tall PR manager turns around in the doorway and shoots Xavi a final look.

 

“Seriously, Xavi. Paris is a big step. The more exposure you get, the more successful the show will be. So get your head around it, sooner rather then later.”

 

“Victor…” Andrés reprimands him, but his best friend just shrugs.

 

“Whatever,” he says. “I’ll see you guys for lunch.”

 

Then they’re alone. Andrés turns to Xavi immediately.

 

“He’s right, you know,” he tells him.

 

Xavi sighs and rounds his table, flops down on the old armchair – a vintage piece from New York, Andrés remembers the day Xavi bought it, years ago. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he replies and watches as Andrés sits down on the edge of his desk. “I don’t get what these fucking interviews are for. The clothes speak for themselves.”

 

Andrés smiles at that. He watches as Xavi absentmindedly reaches for a pencil, dragging random lines across white, crisp paper. He watches the light being reflected on his rings, three on each hand, always six. He thinks, we’ve changed so much and then hardly at all.

 

“They do,” he says. “But some people don’t understand.”

 

The pencil stills. “Maybe they’re just not listening.”

 

 

***

 

 

Leo does as Pedro suggested – he keeps a low profile during the day. So does everyone else by the looks of it. It’s quieter, no music is playing and Andrés, who usually runs around between all the floors, stays in Xavi’s atelier until noon. He comes down the stairs at around half past twelve, all black and blue socks and Leo briefly wonders if he decides on the colour according to his mood.

 

But then again, he’s never seen Andrés looking anything but collected, concentrated – and always positive. And considering what is thrown at him day in day out, Leo can’t help but admire him for his obvious nerves of steel and his peace of mind.

 

Like when Pedro accidently snips into the hem of a dress or when Mario uses the wrong interfacing for a shirt or when Cesc walks in, eyes and ears everywhere but not on the coffee in his hand that eventually ends up staining some off-white silk. Andrés just says not to worry, that they can fix it and, in Cesc’s case, that “Xavi will skin you if you bring coffee into the studio again”, which is enough to make the other disappear for a few hours.

 

Nevertheless, Leo is glad he hasn’t screwed up yet.

 

They go out for lunch this time, because Andrés tells them to take one hour off and Cesc suggests a small café around the corner from the studio and practically talks all the way through their meal, sharing anecdotes and things he heard from Puyi. He comments on Pedro’s bowtie – he wears a different one each day – and insists, “I don’t know anything about fashion, really. That’s why I always opt for the safe look. Whenever I try to be daring, Dani just laughs at me.”

 

When they return, they find the studio deserted, but once again there are muffled voices from the third floor. Leo’s just about to continue with where he’d left off before lunch when the infamous door collides with the wall and a second later, Andrés is halfway down the stairs, looking slightly flushed.

 

“We need more pins,” he says hurriedly. “And a setsquare. Now.”

 

Then he disappears again and Leo shares a quick look with Pedro. “I’m not going up there,” Pedro says first. “Not today,” and Leo feels his stomach drop as he reaches for the requested box of pins and the large setsquare that’s on Javier’s table.

 

His knees feel weak when he climbs up the staircase, door at the end only ajar and it reminds Leo; it reminds him of another place, another time, not so long ago and yet it’s still fading and – he actually doesn’t want to think about it anyway.

 

He enters the atelier and for a second, he only sees light. Sun floods in through large windows on either side and before Leo can do or say anything, Andrés is right in front of him, takes pins and setsquare from his hands and hurries over to the centre of the room.

 

Xavi is there. Leo automatically takes in his appearance; loose pinstriped trousers, a grey t-shirt, two black cardigans, a measuring tape around his neck. There is a long dress pinned to a mannequin and Xavi drapes, twists, tweaks, deep frown on his face, Javier and Andrés are by his side, quietly observing and Leo –

 

He feels like he’s intruding, but Andrés hasn’t told him to leave and damn, he is just curious and bloody fascinated.

 

“It’s not working,” Xavi mumbles more to himself than anyone else in the room and Andrés and Javier share a quick look Leo can’t quite decipher. “The supporting panel holds the weight, but now it’s just so,” and he pauses, squints, frowns a bit more, “stiff. Lifeless.”

 

“Well,” Javier reacts rather hesitantly to Xavi’s comment, but Leo blanks out whatever it is that comes out of his mouth.

 

He can see what Xavi means, the slight stiffer area around the neckline and Leo knows the problem, he knows it and –

 

He knows how to fix it.

 

Before Leo can stop himself, his lips practically move on their own, words pouring out. “What if you were to cut the inside panel on the bias, but attach a light interfacing to it? It would still hold the weight, but,” and suddenly he’s aware of what he’s doing and whose eyes are instantly on him and his voice is almost reduced to a whisper, “it would, you know, move with the body.”

 

Xavi looks at him. No, he doesn’t just look, his eyes practically pierce into Leo’s chest with such intensity that Leo feels like they’re physically crushing his ribcage. He holds his breath. Xavi turns to Andrés, raises his distinctive brows at him. Andrés needs a few seconds to catch on.

 

“That’s Leo,” he mutters quickly. “A new intern.”

 

Xavi’s eyes are back on him; observing, calculating – assessing and Leo thinks he shrinks quite a few inches under his scrutiny. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t openly react and that’s what makes it worse. Leo can deal with shouting.

 

Feeling quite helpless, Leo glances over to Andrés, who catches his eyes. He makes a small waving motion with his hand and, after moments of absolute silence, adds a quiet, “You can go, Leo.”

 

The walk back down the stairs feels like descending towards hell.

 

 

 

 

 

“Fuck,” Leo mutters to himself, kicking off his shoes. He tosses his bag into a corner with a satisfactory ‘clunk’. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He intends to use similar force shutting his bedroom’s door, but Kun intercepts his plan by planting his foot against the frame. His best friend peaks in. Leo only throws him a glare and starts to undress.

 

“Bad day?” Kun asks superfluously.

 

Leo doesn’t bother to respond. It’s fairly obvious that yes, he’s had a bad day. And no, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Kun gets the first hint; not the second.

 

“What happened?”

 

He shuts the door behind him, flops down on Leo’s bed that is momentarily covered with clothes and fabric swatches and little balls of thread, because Leo hasn’t had time to tidy up or clean or do anything for that matter. And all he wants now is shower and sleep and drag his sorry behind to work in the morning, hoping not to get sacked.

 

“I screwed up,” he mumbles into the collar of his jumper before pulling it off. It joins the other stuff on his bed.

 

Kun, like always, is persistent. “Well, what did you do?”

 

“I just –“ He breaks off, sighs, doesn’t really know how to continue because fuck, Leo has no idea what he actually did wrong; except for talking when he hadn’t been asked to – for interfering with Xavi’s work. Shit. This is going to haunt him. “I just did.” Leo knows there’s no point explaining it to Kun, because Kun wouldn’t understand. His best friend doesn’t think that way.

 

“Take your mind off it, then,” Kun offers, idly toying with a swatch of felted wool.

 

“I was going to,” Leo replies, slipping out of his trousers too. He doesn’t mind that Kun is watching him. “Shower and bed. And something deep-fried.”

 

His best friend laughs at that. “That’s not what I call distraction. My boss is having this thing, and I want to go, important people and all. But they are also very boring.”

 

Leo sits down next to him and lets himself fall back. Somewhere, there’s a pin hidden amongst the layers and it’s digging into his back, but he doesn’t bother to move.

 

“And that’s supposed to lure me out? Boring people?” He can’t hold back a yawn. “I just want to sleep, okay? I need some rest.”

 

“You need an open bar, my hermit friend. Which will be catered for at Silva’s thing.” Kun suggestively wiggles his eyebrows at him. “Come on, have some fun once in a while. All you do is work.”

 

Leo sighs a second time. He knows his friend. He knows that Kun will pester him all night if he needs to and Leo is sure that he wouldn’t be able to take it today. Plus, an open bar does sound good. He can’t even remember the last time he’d gone out. Not that he does it very often, not anymore, not since –

 

“Fine, I’ll come,” he declares his defeat. Leo thinks about adding, _but you owe me_ , before he remembers that he probably already owes Kun more than he can ever return, so he swallows the words back down and heads for the shower.

 

 

 

 

Kun’s boss’s thing, a party or whatever, is at some avant-garde rooftop bar overlooking Barcelona. It’s not far from the Plaça Reial. He doesn’t know the city very well yet, but he knows his way around this area; Leo is quite sure it would only take him thirty minutes to walk to Xavi’s studio from where they are.

 

The lights are dimmed and the music is loud, pulsing like an accelerated heartbeat. Curtains are randomly drawn, some even randomly placed in the middle of the massive room and Leo sees pictures projected onto them, changing every few seconds.

 

Kun doesn’t talk much about his job, just says that it’s great, but Leo knows Silva’s work. One of his tutors at University had once told him about the necessity to know every aspect of the industry inside out, including photographers. And Leo likes the images that flash in front of his eyes, not all fashion-related, but calm, minimalistic, sharp contours and contrasts.

 

Kun takes Leo’s sleeve and pulls him straight to the bar, greets a few people along the way; Leo doesn’t bother, he doesn’t know anyone anyway. He lets Kun order the drinks, because he isn’t picky, he just needs something to drown out the noise, drown out every thought occupying his mind right now.

 

Some guy walks up to them, Kun introduces him as Diego and that’s all Leo picks out from the conversation that they’re having. He lets his eyes scan the room, watches people move around, notices what they’re wearing and they all look like straight out of a catalogue, well-dressed but just so boring, like they’ve all been dressed by the same person.

 

So instead he looks at the photographs flashing over the curtains, downs his drinks and briefly wonders whether Silva has ever worked for Xavi, because the industry is small and it’s even smaller in Barcelona and everyone knows one another.

 

Leo trails Kun all evening, feels ridiculous and just slightly annoyed, because this isn’t taking his mind off anything and maybe the drinks aren’t strong enough and maybe he should’ve just gone to bed.

 

At one point – he’s not sure how much time has actually passed – Leo just leans back against the bar as Kun drifts off to find his boss, but not before Leo has laughed at him for trying to suck up to Silva. Kun knows it’s just a joke and only mock-glares and Leo orders another drink; he hasn’t counted how many he’s had.

 

He lets his gaze wander across polished bodies and faces. Magazine editors, socialites, models, photographers – the pretty façade. All dressed up and probably without a clue about all the time and effort that has actually gone into the clothes they parade around one night – and then never look at again. Leo used to be angry at their ignorance, now he just feels sorry for them.

 

“You seem bored.”

 

“I am bored.” Leo doesn’t turn, eyes fixed on a random point somewhere in the room. It’s definitely not anyone he knows, so he doesn’t hide his disinterest.

 

“Can’t blame you,” is the dry and surprising reply and that makes Leo move his head to the side.

 

The next second he wishes that he didn’t.

 

Because – fuck. If he isn’t good-looking then Leo doesn’t know who is. He can feel his fingertips tingling and his throat goes dry and damn him for being so visually responsive. And damn these dark eyes that are blatantly fixed on him.

 

“What are you having?”

 

Leo takes a quick look at his almost empty glass, then lifts his gaze again. He’s still eyeing him with open interest.

 

“No clue,” he answers honestly, because Leo really has no idea. Maybe the drinks have been stronger than he had assumed. Maybe he is drunk. He feels dizzy.

 

Dark-eyes lifts his left arm and Leo sees some silver rings, counts three leather straps tied around his wrist. He sends a gesture to the bartender and his black shirt creases and tightens around his chest with that small movement, not asking Leo but knowing; knowing that Leo will comply to anything, being used to people complying to anything. Leo feels a familiar pull in his chest.

 

Two glasses are put down between them and when Leo reaches for one, their fingers brush and his breath hitches and –

 

“You’re not from here.”

 

Again, he doesn’t ask and Leo wouldn’t know how to answer anyway, because the other is moving in on him, steady, assertive, almost predatory and Leo can smell his cologne, earthy and masculine and it fills his nose, his head, clouds his mind. Just shortly, Leo wonders why the hell he is talking to him, because he is so clearly and utterly out of his league, but the he leans forward and his lips brush Leo’s ear.

 

“Then you shouldn’t waste your time.”

 

No, Leo thinks, no he really shouldn’t. And he blames Kun, really, with all his talk about crushes and types and taking his mind off things. This is certainly taking his mind to another place. The lips move along his jaw and Leo shudders because fuck, it’s just been too long and the other is just –

 

He is dark and assertive and Leo wants that, he needs that right now, right there and so he turns his head and captures the other’s lips, just softly at first, but immediately he feels a solid hand on the back of his neck that almost forcefully tilts his head. Their teeth clash for an instant but then there’s only lips, slightly chapped and rough and hot. Leo’s heart stutters. The second hand moves along his waist and to the small of his back, pushing forward, pushing down.

 

Leo doesn’t know what to do with his hands. One is still on the bar and he almost knocks over one of the glasses. He wants to touch him, but Leo doesn’t know if he – and fuck knows what the bartender is thinking and everyone else and if they’re even noticing them.

 

“Wanna get out of here?” His breath tickles Leo’s face and he can only nod numbly.

 

He shouldn’t do this, he’s perfectly aware of that, but as he takes the first steps to follow that striking stranger who has his wrist in a deadlock, Leo is sure he leaves all his common sense at the bar – unintentionally or not.

 

Coincidentally, he turns around one more time before leaving the party and sees Kun across the room, looking up, looking at him, puzzled and Leo can tell that he is about to dart forward, wants to catch up to him; he quickly shuts the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

There’s a car with a driver, but it’s not a cab and it has dark windows, looks expensive, but Leo is too preoccupied with the hand down his jeans to really think about it any more. The drive isn’t long and there’s a bright hallway and a lift and doors and Leo doesn’t notice anything but the hands on his body and the lips on his neck. Leo wants to rip the other’s shirt open, but it’s nice, it’s a nice shirt and so he opens the buttons, one by one, earns a frustrated groan. Skin on skin, grinding and touching everything is hot and buzzing and Leo’s mind goes blank as he is pushed back and a hot mouth descends in his.

 

 

 

 

Leo wakes up with a start that’s been triggered by nothing. There’s a subconscious panic that he always feels when he wakes up without hearing an alarm, constant restlessness kicking in and – fuck his head hurts. He feels slightly dizzy and has a weird feeling in his gut and when he opens his eyes, everything is dark and blurred. Leo blinks, rubs his eyes, then reaches for the watch on his nightstand but his hands grab nothing but air and then sheets, and they feel soft, they feel way softer than anything Leo could afford and he blinks again, head buzzing and looks down at his bare chest and the duvet that is almost slipping off his body – oh.

 

He remembers now. Remembers the party and flashing photographs and apparently too many drinks and that dark and stunning stranger and. Leo glances to the side and sees incredibly rumpled sheets not even minimally covering the outstretched body to his left that is so slim and perfect that Leo wants to draw it and drape silks around it and watch it move and create shapes and folds. He wonders if his skin feels as perfect and soft as it looks, like Italian duchesse satin and he thinks he remembers, beneath his hands, beneath his lips, but he’s not so sure, because his imagination tends to run off without him from time to time.

 

Leo snaps out of it, looks around again, quickly takes in the room; big, modern, but quite dark. There’s a window front to his right and the sky is still dark, but that doesn’t mean anything, because it’s winter, because it’s dark in the morning and dark early in the afternoon and – he scrambles out of bed, almost tumbles over a shirt on the floor that isn’t his. He sees the label and his stomach drops, because it probably costs more than his month’s rent and Leo hurries to quietly pick up his stuff on the impeccable parquet floor. It’s just past five, which means he’s hopefully going to have enough time to get to his flat and have a shower and change clothes before work, if there’s even work to go to. He really doesn’t want to be sacked because, for once, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

 

Leo shuts the door quietly, ignores the weird feeling in his belly and stalks down a long, bare hallway. The place is huge and Leo feels tiny and unimportant in comparison and he’s glad when he finds a lift that takes him down to the ground floor. There’s a valet sitting at a desk that looks at him and Leo feels embarrassed and sneaky, but the valet just nods and Leo thinks that this is probably not the first time, which makes him feel slightly better.

 

 

 

 

It takes him about thirty minutes to walk home and his place feels so tiny and shabby in comparison that Leo wonders what the hell he was even thinking – if he was thinking at all. But then again, that had kind of been the point. He tries to be quiet, does not want to wake Kun and when he strips to get into the shower, he sees marks on his hips and shoulders and neck. Leo leans his head back against the cold ties and lets water rain over his face as images return to his mind, touches the red traces on his body and it takes shamefully few moments for him to come.

 

 

 

 

When he gets to the studio it’s just past seven and Cesc is not even at the front desk yet. It’s incredibly quiet, but Leo is grateful, it gives him time to clear his head a bit more and mentally prepare himself. Pipita is the only person present on the second floor, opening massive parcels with fabrics from Italy in dark but rich colours; burgundy, plum, a striking petrol blue. He looks up when Leo walks in and drops off his bag underneath a table.

 

“Long night?” Pipita asks with a grin that’s too bright for seven in the morning.

 

Leo guesses he probably looks worse than he feels and lifts his shoulders. “Kind of.”

 

Pipita straightens and winks at him, “Was it good?”, and Leo notices the pleats on the front of his trousers, sitting low on his hips, asymmetrical; they look like Yamamoto, maybe early _Comme des Garçons_.

 

He feels heat rise and a blush creeping up his neck, but fortunately, Leo doesn’t get the chance to answer. The door to Andrés’ office opens – he’s probably already been here for an hour – and Xavi’s assistant steps out, dressed in his usual uniform of black dress pants and a black shirt that is buttoned up to the very top; he’s wearing orange socks today. Leo wonders if that’s a good sign.

 

“Morning, guys,” he greets them and smiles, shifting a couple of heavy folders in his arms that he sets down on one of the tables, then he looks at Gonzalo after both him and Leo mutter a Good morning in reply. “Pip, can you give those to Puyi as soon as he gets in? They’re the merchandising reports from last month. And please ask him to make sure that we’ve got everything prepared for Paris. I know it’s still a couple of weeks, but –”

 

Pipita nods. “No problem, Andrés. Anything else?”

 

“Well,” Andrés says and briefly looks at his watch. “Just make sure that everything’s ready for this afternoon. Tell Cesc to check on the Polaroid cameras.”

 

“Should we get coffee too, or –”

 

“No,” Andrés says immediately, looking almost alarmed. “Stains, you know. Just water, flavoured. Bottles, no glasses.”

 

“I’m on it,” then Pipita hoists the folders up into his arms and is down the stairs with quick steps.

 

Andrés looks at him. “How are you this morning, Leo?”

 

“I’m good, um – thanks,” Leo answers and isn’t quite sure what’s going on, because Andrés keeps looking at him with this indefinable glance, entirely neutral and he doesn’t say anything and Leo wonders if he expects him to do something, anything, get on with work, quit. Or maybe Andrés is thinking of the best way to fire him. Leo feels dizzy.

 

“Brilliant,” Andrés smiles eventually, keeps looking without moving and inch and then something shifts and Leo doesn’t know what exactly, but his fingertips feel numb. “Leave your stuff here. Xavi wants to see you in the atelier.”

 

 

 

At first, it had just been his fingertips. Now, as Leo is standing in front of the white, wooden door at the top of the last flight of stairs, he can’t feel his body anymore. His hand is trembling when he knocks, sound quiet and hollow. The answer from the inside is muffled and Leo hesitates for a heartbeat until he steps inside. He keeps his eyes on his feet as he walks, tries not to fall over them. Out of the corner of his eyes though, he notices that there’s less clutter; the atelier’s been tidied up, mannequins pushed against a wall covered in pictures and fabric swatches. The old parquet floor creaks beneath his boots.

 

“Take a seat.”

 

Leo raises his glance and feels all air sucked from his body and he feels smaller than he’s felt in a long time. Xavi is sitting behind his desk, covered with loose papers, some inkpots. A small notebook is sitting just on the edge, with two Blackberrys resting on top of it. There’s a folder open in front of him; he’s flipping through it, not looking at Leo.

Leo takes a few more steps. The antique chair groans when he sits down.

He tries to keep his eyes on his hand, but Leo can’t tear his eyes away from Xavi; can’t look away from the jet-black hair and the bold curve of his eyebrows, the strong line of his jaw caressed by the soft folds of a patterned scarf, and the six silver rings shimmering on his sinewy fingers.

 

It hits Leo, hits him right then whom he is facing and it humbles him to no extent, makes him want and yearn and crave, realize what he’d do to keep going.

 

“Dani gave me your CV,” Xavi suddenly says and looks up and his eyes reflect something Leo recognizes and that makes his heart beat faster, but in a good way and he starts to feel his hands again. He ceases to be scared. “It’s quite impressive, considering your age.” He pauses, studies Leo’s face, squints his eyes slightly and then lowers his gaze again, flips another page. “Westminster. I was there for a year. Did you have Rijkaard as a tutor?”

 

He looks at him again and Leo needs a few seconds to realize he’s been asked a question and when his voice comes out, he doesn’t really recognize it. “Yes, um – in my final year.”

 

“He’s a good teacher,” Xavi says. “But I doubt he was as helpful as your year at _Maradona_. Was Ronaldinho still Creative Director?”

 

Leo’s throat goes dry. “He was. He – I learned a lot from him.” It’s the truth, but it’s the only truth Leo is willing to give and he really hopes Xavi won’t ask any more.

 

“I can imagine. It’s a shame he had to leave.” Xavi closes the folder obviously containing Leo’s CV and Leo – he’s worked so hard to get it together, never taking a break, not even a breather and using ever spare week, every term break to work, just always work. This means everything to him and Leo hopes Xavi can see that. “Mens- or Womenswear?”

 

Leo blinks. “Um – womenswear, I guess. I mean, I like both, but – menswear has so many restrictions.”

 

Xavi chuckles softly, low and husky, sound coming from the back of his throat and his mouth twitches; Leo kneads his hands in his lap. “That’s probably why I’m doing it for the first time this season. Not that I’m being too mindful about the restrictions.” He leans back in his chair, twists the ring gracing his left middle finger. “It was a very good suggestion, by the way,” Xavi continues. “Cutting the panel on the bias with an interfacing following the grain. You certainly know what you’re doing. Have you done fittings before?”

 

Leo almost sighs with relief, because if Xavi thinks it was good, if _Xavi_ says he knows what he’s doing then – Leo doesn’t even know. He feels in a daze; probably quite starstruck, still. “Yes,” he answers and for some reason he sounds breathless.

 

“Good.” Xavi smiles. His chair creaks as he gets up and Leo watches his black shirt unfold, one half of the hem tucked into striped trousers with a low crotch and then his boots are heavy on the parquet. He walks over to the wall covered in pictures and swatches and sketches, his back now turned to Leo, and Leo sees the protruding shoulder blades and strong curve of his back and he knows it’s got nothing to do with exercise or sports. Their sport is being on their feet constantly, leaning over tables and tracing and cutting, draping and crouching down, mind on edge, constantly on edge.

 

Xavi seems to ponder on something, then he reaches out and takes one, two images off the wall and he turns around again, eyes on the two sheets in his hands and – and Leo thinks he can see it right there, his own obsession mirrored in someone else’s face; the same focus and determination and just sheer devotion and maybe even more. _This is it, this is it_ , his mind keeps repeated like a religious mantra, echoing between his temples and hitting his forehead, making him light-headed.

 

Xavi sits down again and slides the pictures across his desk over to Leo. “We’re doing fittings in a few hours, for the menswear show in January. These two pictures define the main theme, so get familiar with it, because I want you to help out.”

 

 

 

Leo almost falls down the stairs when he leaves the atelier.

 

 

 

“I need coffee.”

 

Cesc is just fiddling around with the machine and turns around when Leo enters the kitchen. He pulls a face.

 

“Dude, you look like you need something stronger than that.”

 

Leo has a flashback of hot, sweaty skin and filigree fingers tracing and – “God, no. Just coffee.”

 

Cesc, as always in an impeccable white shirt and dark, slim trousers, fills two cups. “Sugar? Milk?”

 

Leo joins him at the small kitchen table and sinks into the chair, head suddenly pounding, body releasing tension. “No, thanks. Black.”

 

Cesc is facing him, chin propped up on one hand, and Leo counts four spoons of sugar that he drops into his coffee. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

 

He finishes his coffee before he answers. It’s hot and bitter and almost burns his throat, but it does wake him from his daze and Leo’s head isn’t swimming anymore. “Xavi wanted to talk to me,” Leo says and sees Cesc’s eyes widen. “He wants me to help out with the fitting today.”

 

“Seriously?” There’s a genuine smile on his face. “That’s big, man. Really big.” When Leo raises his eyebrows Cesc reaches for even more sugar and elaborates. “Trust me, Xavi is a bloody dictator when it comes to fittings. I mean, more than he already is. Only Andrés and Masche are allowed to be there, and sometimes I have to take some quick photographs. You must’ve impressed with something.”

 

This doesn’t make Leo feel any less nervous. He can’t screw this up. The pressure is on.

 

 

 

The next few hours fly by. Leo is assigned to help out Andrés prepare everything for the fitting; he hauls garment rails around and arranges toiles and fabrics, grabs pins and measuring tapes, swipes the floor and sews zips into a couple of coats and jackets. He tries not to get distracted by Xavi, who seems to be everywhere at once, eyeing everyone and everything like a hawk.

 

Leo guesses it’s probably around twelve, and he hasn’t had breakfast or lunch but he ignores and suppresses the rumbling in his belly, when Cesc comes in, glued to a guy who is tall and lanky and couldn’t be anyone but a model considering his face. He’s got one leather jacket clad arm around Cesc’s neck and is laughing into his ear, then Cesc sees Leo crouching down underneath a rail to arrange some shoes. He waves and Leo gets up, hits his head on a heavily buckled cuff of a coat.

 

“Meet Gerard Piqué,” Cesc says and playfully slaps the model’s cheek who grins and reveals an unsurprisingly perfect white line of teeth.

 

“Hello,” Leo says and Gerard smiles like he’s surrounded by cameras and like he expects Leo to say something or do something else and Leo guesses he probably looks quite puzzled.

 

Suddenly, Piqué frowns lightly and Cesc bursts out laughing and Leo can’t help but briefly glance around; Xavi is nowhere to be seen. “Told you,” Cesc tells his apparent friend and a grin is splitting his face. “You’re not as universally famous as you want to think. Not everyone knows your face.”

 

“Shut up. I’m the face for fucking _Hermès_. And asking designers is not fair. All they ever notice is the clothes.”

 

Leo thinks that’s actually quite true and he feels the strange need to apologize for it, because, well, _Hermès_ is a big deal and quite impressive and Leo probably _should_ know him, but then Cesc leans over and pats his back.

 

“I knew I could count on you. His head’s gotten bigger than his body lately.”

 

“No, it hasn’t,” Piqué protests and Cesc pokes his tongue out at him and – they remind him of him and Kun and he guesses they go way back and he’s sure Cesc is going to tell him all about it.

 

Before any more banter can ensue, Xavi and Andrés walk in, the latter quietly talking into his phone. Piqué spins around.

 

“Hey, Xavi! Killed anyone yet?”

 

“Thinking about it,” Xavi answers nonchalantly and briefly scans the room. It’s an emptied conference room on the first floor, chairs stacked in one corner and the large table temporarily stored in Victor’s office, which the head of PR hadn’t been happy about – Leo’s ears are still ringing. “Where’s Villa?”

 

It’s quiet. Leo can hear Puyi’s hollering voice downstairs. Piqué shrugs, pulls a face. “Don’t know, we didn’t drive together.”

 

Xavi sighs in annoyance. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 

Then he leaves the room again, but Andrés beckons them to get started and talks Leo through the outfits and the order. Cesc gets the camera ready and Leo helps Gerard to get changed, eyes on the clothes, always, and Piqué doesn’t make a fuss, patiently lets layer after layer be draped around his body. Leo thinks he’s probably worked for Xavi before, who returns after a few minutes and Leo steps back and watches as the designer measures, tweaks and folds. Andrés is by his side with a small notepad and scribbles down all changes to lengths and other measurements.

 

They’re on outfit number four and Leo is crouched down again, pinning the hem of a pair of trousers, careful not to jab Piqué in the leg, when the door opens and Xavi lets out a sigh. Villa, Leo assumes.

 

“Fucking finally,” he breathes and Leo can only see a pair of legs clad in black in jeans.

 

“Nice to see you too, Xavi,” the new arrival says and steps into his line of sight.

 

Leo almost swallows the pin he has tucked between his lips.

 

“What’s your excuse this time?” Xavi asks but he doesn’t seem particularly angry, for whatever reason. Leo is frozen to the spot. He can hear his heart beat faster, because – fuck.

 

“It’s not my fault Pepe didn’t leave before I’d agreed to do at least three more campaigns this month.” Dark eyes, chiselled features, probably even more beautiful in the light of day than in the blurred and flickering ambience of Silva’s party. He doesn’t waste any time, kicks off boots and slides out of his coat, takes off his jumper and Leo –

 

Leo stares at his chest because he can see faint marks, marks _he_ left there and he forces his eyes back down, finishes pinning the trousers, then gets up and tries to disappear behind Piqué’s tall frame. He’s glad that Andrés tells him to help Piqué again, put on the next outfit, but Leo can’t help but prick up his ears as Xavi speaks up again and they lapse into conversation.

 

“Pepe is a bloody slavedriver,” he says. “And you’ve lost weight.”

 

“Like you’re one to talk,” Villa snorts. “I started running again, but it’s not like there’s a big difference.”

 

“There is. I can tell. And you better not lose or gain any from now on. I don’t want the closing outfit of the show to look like shit because it doesn’t fit you anymore.”

 

Villa mutters something and Leo is so tempted to look up again, to see if he’s noticed, but he keeps his eyes glued to his hands, fumbling with buttons when Andrés comes to stand next to him, making adjustments on Xavi’s behalf who is busy bickering with Villa.

Cesc snaps a few shots and sticks all the polaroid photos to the wall with masking tape, Piqué is pulling faces in every single one. Leo thinks it’s funny, he’s not sure Xavi will take it the same way.

 

After a while though, Leo feels eyes on him. He doesn’t look up, forces himself to focus, but eventually he can’t keep it up anymore as Xavi calls him over, telling him to bring one of the boiled wool jackets. He finds himself facing Villa with Xavi practically breathing down his neck. There’s something flashing in Villa’s eyes and his lips are twitching slightly, but he doesn’t say anything; at least not until Xavi is rummaging for something on the rails and everyone else is occupied and Leo is pinning the jacket’s collar into place.

 

“Fancy seeing you here.”

 

His voice is low and raspy and Leo’s throat goes dry. His fingers slip and he drives a pin into his skin, curses. Before he can do or say anything else, Xavi is there again.

 

 

 

Leo breathes an audible sigh of relief when the fittings are over and he finds the kitchen deserted. He pours himself some coffee from a can and it’s already cold and even bitterer, but he downs it nonetheless. His mind is racing, because fuck, if he isn’t screwed – and then he winces again for the unintended pun in his head. Leo tries to think, tries to put everything together but he thinks he’s missing a piece, he’s missed something of importance here that should’ve been obvious.

 

The door falls shut and Leo spins around, almost drops his cup. Villa is walking towards him, once again in black jeans and a barely buttoned up shirt, predatory like the night before and there’s a confident smile lightly tugging on his lips. Leo’s not proud of it, but he backs away. The countertop digs into the small of his back.

 

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he says and he’s close. Leo can smell his aftershave. It smells expensive.

 

He clears his throat. “In my defence, it didn’t really come up in conversation.”

 

Villa raises his eyebrows, now openly grinning and Leo can see soft dimples. He steps closer and they’re bodies are almost touching, so Leo leans back. Villa chuckles softly. “You weren’t so shy last night.”

 

Leo can feel a blush creeping up his neck and to his cheeks and he swallows thickly. “I’m at work,” and he hopes that explains it and that he doesn’t have to explain any more, but he decides to add something, just in case. “I usually don’t – do that.”

 

Villa doesn’t move an inch and his expression remains firmly set. He’s studying Leo’s face and Leo tries not to give anything away, but then Villa leans forward, breath ghosting against his neck and Leo freezes. “Are you sure? You seemed pretty practiced.” He presses closer, arms caging Leo against the kitchen counter. When Leo feels his lips brushing his jaw, his eyes flutter and –

 

He makes a mental note to thank Pipita later, because suddenly, he’s in the doorway, looking at them with raised eyebrows. Villa nevertheless takes his time to peel himself away from Leo, eyes never leaving him when he steps away, grabs a bottle of elderflower-flavoured water and eventually leaves the kitchen. His smells remains stuck to Leo and his head feels fuzzy. Pipita looks at him, then recognition dawns on his face.

 

“Last night, huh?”

 

Leo nods stiffly, then flops down on a chair. Pipita twists one around and puts his arms on the backrest.

 

“Okay,” Pipita says and furrows his brows. “Okay, so this might be a stupid question but – how on earth did you land David Villa?”

 

“I – what?” Now he’s definitely sure that he’s missing something.

 

Pipita opens his mouth a few times, eyes wide. “Wait. You – please tell me you know who he is.”

 

“Um. I’m not really good with faces,” but now he does have a weird feeling in his gut.

 

Pipita barks out a laugh. “Apparently. That’s David Villa, man. Probably the most sought after model in the industry right now.”

 

Oh, Leo thinks. _Oh_. Maybe he really should stop looking at just the clothes.

 

Pipita just laughs some more and Leo – well, he’s not exactly sure. It’s not like it changes anything, it just adds to his confusion as to why on earth somebody like Villa would ever take interest in him in the first place. Not that he’s planning on extending it. One time thing; he needs to stay focused on work.

 

 

 

 

When Leo arrives home around eight, earlier than usual, Kun is sitting at their kitchen table and he looks like he’s been waiting for him.

 

“You really know how to pick them, huh?” he says and Leo pulls a face, sits down opposite him and reaches for a can of coke.

 

“Don’t tell me I’m the only one who didn’t recognize him.”

 

“To be fair, it was dark,” Kun says and tries to kick him beneath the table. Leo hooks their legs together. “But his face is practically plastered all over the city. Silva shot the _Gaultier_ campaign with him. I thought you’d seen at least that.”

 

Leo shrugs. “I did see it. But –”

 

“I know, I know. You only saw the clothes. We’ve got to work on that tunnel vision of yours, or you’ll get yourself into trouble.”

 

Leo thinks it’s a bit late for that. “He’s one of Xavi’s models,” he says simply and Kun gets it straight away.

 

“Awkward?”

 

“Kind of, yeah.” He sighs. “Don’t think anyone but Pipita noticed though.”

 

Kun takes his coke and finishes it, then tosses the empty can into the bin. “Well, you’ve always been subtle.” Leo ignores his comment and Kun loses his serious expression. “Chinese for dinner?”

 

“Only if you’re paying.”

 

Kun curses at him, but he orders and pays for it anyway.

 

 

 

The last weeks before Christmas pass without any special occurrences. Leo spends most of the time sewing toiles and altering the patterns for the garments they fitted. Andrés seems more relaxed and Xavi tenser and Leo thinks it has to do with three interviews Victor has forced him to give. _Vogue España, L’Uomo_ and _i-D_. Leo buys all three, rips out the pages with the articles, dubbing Xavi as the next Cristobal Balenciaga, an architect of shapes and a poet of colours, and pins them to the wall above his desk. Kun tells him he’s insane. Leo doesn’t care if he is.

 

 

 

It’s two days until Christmas and the weather is foul, cold and wet. Nevertheless, Cesc suggest they go out for lunch, because there’s not much to do. Xavi is meeting with investors and Andrés says they’re ahead of schedule so it’s okay to take a short break. Puyi has taken Pedro and Mario out to one of the factories and Pipita is out with that guy from _i-D_ , Ezequiel. Leo is relieved, really, because Pipita is the only one who _knows_ and he’s been trying to get Leo to talk when all Leo wants to do is just forget that night ever happened.

 

So it’s just him and Cesc at first and Leo doesn’t mind, because Cesc isn’t complicated and he doesn’t mind to do the talking and Leo prefers to listen anyway. They’re just sitting down at a table in the far corner of the small coffee shop around the corner from the studio when Piqué strolls in. _Burberry_ trenchcoat, jeans, boots. He’s drenched from the rain outside and still looks like he’s ready to do a cover shoot. He flops down and pulls at Cesc’s ear, who bats his hand away with a frown.

 

“Where are you coming from?”

 

Piqué shrugs off his coat, greeting Leo with a wink, then he grabs the menu lying of the table. “Just did a shoot for _GQ_ and dropped by the studio. Dani said you’d gone out for lunch. So I guess Xavi’s not in?”

 

“Nah,” Cesc answers. “Meeting with Guardiola and some investors. He’ll be in a foul mood when he gets back.”

 

“Isn’t he always in a foul mood?” Piqué raises his eyebrows at Cesc and waves over one of the waitresses, who clearly blushes and fumbles nervously with her apron whilst jotting down their orders. When she’s gone again, Piqué leans back and nudges Leo with his foot.

 

Leo figures he wants some sort of response. “Xavi isn’t bad,” he says, because really, he isn’t. Xavi is just – “I’ve had worse.” He realizes how that sounds when he sees the two of them grin, can’t suppress a blush. “I mean, I’ve worked for designers who were horrible people. Xavi doesn’t throw things at you.”

 

Piqué laughs and bares his perfect line of teeth. “Nutcases, the lot of you. Thank fuck I only have to wear their clothes.”

 

The waitress brings their drinks and they lapse into casual conversation, or rather Piqué and Cesc do, filling Leo in on more stories about them and work and practically everything. He learns that they’d gone to school together, that Cesc’s parents had gotten divorced which had made him quit University to get a job. He’d started as a receptionist and handyman for Xavi a few years ago and when Piqué had come to visit him at the studio, he’d caught Abi’s eyes, who had linked him up with his old agency and his modelling career had taken off from there. Cesc says that he’s got enough saved up to return to University, but he’s grown attached to the guys, enjoys the work and thinks he has enough options open. Leo knows what he means. Once fashion sucks you in, there’s no going back.

 

 

 

 

Christmas is as uneventful as every year. He and Kun spend it mostly inside their flat, order takeout and eat biscuits with the TV blasting in the background while Leo sketches and Kun edits some photographs on his laptop. It’s what they’ve been doing the past few years and they’ve developed their own little routine, because neither have the money or the time to fly back home. Leo calls his parents and his mother asks if he’s quit smoking, if he’s sleeping enough, skipping meals, working too hard and Leo gives her the answers she wants to hear, because it’s easier that way.

 

 

 

 

Leo’s back at work on the 27th and he is sure that one day later and he would have gone insane. He doesn’t deal well with holidays. So it’s no surprise to him that he’s the first one there, of course besides Puyi, Andrés and Xavi. Puyi is behind the front desk and gives him a look, slightly smiles to himself as he greets Leo. The first floor is still deserted, but there’s rustling and steps from the second and once Leo’s up the stairs he can see Xavi and Andrés tearing at boxes. Both look up when he approaches and Xavi – he smiles. He seems to be in a good mood.

 

“Perfect timing, Leo,” Xavi greets him and opens the lid of the last box. Deep, dark folds of fabric; Damask silk. Leo can understand why Xavi is excited. “Fancy getting your hands dirty? Or rather, dusty?”

 

Leo drops his bag after shoving his jacket and snood into it. “Sure,” he says. “Do you, um – do you want me to put everything on rolls?”

 

Xavi shakes his head and pulls the burgundy Damask from the box. It drapes over his arm in twenty different shades and shimmers and Leo’s heartbeat quickens just by imagining what it could become. “No. I want you to burn it.”

 

Leo knows that his jaw drops, that he practically gapes at Xavi like an idiot, but he can’t help it. “You want me to what?”

 

Xavi chuckles and continues to drape the metres of fabric – it probably costs a bloody fortune – across the studio with Andrés’ help. “Burn it,” he repeats casually. “There are some lighters and matches in the black box beneath the table. We’re going to burn holes into it.”

 

Leo blinks and moves numbly to reach for said box. He grabs a handful of lighters and tentatively walks back towards Xavi, who is busy tying the corners of the fabric to a garment rail so that it dangles in mid-air like a canvas cover. It’s absolutely beautiful and Leo carefully touches it with his fingertips. It’s soft and has an incredible weight, most likely woven in Italy and it’s just so stunning that Leo would find it hard to even cut it, let alone –

 

“Burn it.”

 

Xavi steps up next to him and takes a box of matches from his, lights one up and, without hesitation, holds it against the fabric that instantly darkens, catches fire and crumbles away once Xavi pats it out again. Leo has to suppress the urge to flinch. He takes a deep breath, watches Xavi and now Andrés too and how they move around the room, burning holes into silk that most likely costs as much as his rent over a few months.

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he can’t help but mutter to himself, earning another chuckle from Xavi and a supportive smile from Andrés. His hand trembles and it takes him a few attempts to get the lighter going and even then, he can’t quite bring himself to do it. A few more beats pass, then he lifts the flame to the fabric, winces; feels like he’s burning his own skin. But he does continue and it gets easier and after a while, it almost feels cleansing. Leo is usually so meticulous when it comes to handling fabric and he doesn’t allow any dust to settle on anything he works with. Burning it, tearing it apart, ripping and straining – it adds an entirely new element. It makes it come alive.

 

They burn the Damask and Taffeta and eventually set the fire alarm off from all the heat and the smoke. Sprinklers come on from out of nowhere and Leo is about ready to throw himself over the fabric, but Xavi tells him to leave it, that this will add to the effect. Puyi comes thundering up the stairs and is far from amused and Leo doesn’t even want to imagine what the artificial rain has done to the rest of the studio. Puyi is furious and from loud shouting echoing up from the first floor, Leo can tell that Victor’s not very happy either.

 

Eventually, they end up cleaning the studio until the afternoon. There’s the odd curse from Victor and the occasional whine from Cesc when he comes across something particularly soaked. Leo is just blow-drying some toiles hanging on a rail and Xavi is right next to him and then suddenly their eyes meet, and maybe it’s the sheer ridiculousness of this situation, of this entire morning that makes them bark out a laugh at the same time.

 

“Maybe we should have just buried it, go Hussein Chalayan on it,” Leo says before he’s registered that his lips are even moving.

 

Xavi stills and there’s a shadow slowly creeping over his eyes, like it’s trying to shield off his mind. But then he blinks and they’re clear again, so clear that Leo can see himself in them. “Next time,” Xavi says and Leo’s heart beats faster.

 

 

 

 

Many nights, Leo can’t sleep. He can’t get his mind to rest, even though his body is exhausted. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of folds and panels and ways to make things work. Sometimes these ideas solidify to an extent that he just has to get up and sketch until the sun rises in a musky grey and it’s time to go to work.

 

 

***

 

 

It’s well past midnight when Andrés finally shuts down his laptop and switches off the small lamp on his desk. Everybody’s been gone for at least two hours, but when he leaves his office it’s no surprise to him that he can see light creeping through beneath the door to Xavi’s atelier. Andrés sighs, puts his bag down and walks up the stairs with tired legs.

 

“Go home, Xavi. You can’t just live here.”

 

Xavi doesn’t look up from where he’s hovering over his table, dozens of sheets and folds of fabric spread out in front of him.

 

“I’ll go,” he says. “Just not now. The line-up isn’t right.”

 

“You always say it’s not. And it’s still going to be here tomorrow,” Andrés replies, because they have this exact conversation many times each season. Resort, Spring, Pre-Fall, Fall – always the same. “We both know that you’re not going anywhere once I leave the studio.”

 

Xavi stills, looks up; Andrés can see the stubble on his face and the dark circles beneath his eyes enhanced by the scarcely lit room. “I need to do this _now_. It can’t wait.”

 

Of course it can’t, Andrés wants to say, it never can. Truth is that it wouldn’t make a difference, not to anyone but Xavi. But that’s the most important aspect. Andrés has long given up on arguing with him over his work. He gets on with it, he deals with it – he picks up the pieces. Always has; always will.

 

“Fine. But if you’re tired and in a foul mood tomorrow, please don’t snap at anyone.”

 

“I never snap,” Xavi says but then he’s already diverted his attention back to his desk and Andrés sighs again, rolls his eyes and leaves.

 

 

***

 

 

“So. New Year,” Kun says out of the blue. He’s lying on the couch and twists around to look at him. Leo’s just been drawing the folds of his jumper. He frowns because Kun has moved and now he can start all over again.

 

“What about it?”

 

Kun rolls his eyes. “It’s tomorrow. What do you want to do?”

 

“I don’t want to do anything,” Leo answers, drops his pencil and glances towards the TV. Kun is watching some football match, which is now muted. He sees a sea of vibrant red and deep blue, thinks colours, _colours_ –

 

“You never want to do anything. This is New Year’s. You’re practically obliged to go out.”

 

“If you’re forcing me anyway, why do you even ask?”

 

Kun grins, shrugs, flops back down and faces the TV. “That’s what people do, Leo. You’d notice if you didn’t have your head in the clouds all the time.”

 

 

 

 

Kun does drag him out, of course, he always does and Leo always goes along. They go somewhere, because Kun knows someone – Kun always knows people – at some place. It’s one of his photography friends, the one with the striking blue eyes and the blond hair – Diego, Leo remembers. It’s another one of those fancy rooftop parties and Leo feels incredibly underdressed, which is nothing new, he’s always underdressed; designer’s curse, he thinks.

 

“Don’t make such a sour face,” Kun slurs into his ear after their second, third?, drink. The lights are dimmed, the music is loud.

 

“I’m not making a face,” Leo objects and tries to take another sip of his drink, but Kun sneaks an arm around his neck and draws his face close. His breath is hot against Leo’s ear as he speaks.

 

“You know, if you’re worried about bad luck or anything, I don’t mind kissing you at midnight.”

 

For a moment everything quietens down a little and other sounds seem distant and Leo thinks, maybe, a few years ago, he would’ve – but he quickly snaps out of it again, gives Kun a soft push and takes a swig of whatever liquid is sloshing around in his glass.

 

“Fuck off,” he says lightly. “I’ve seen you kiss Giannina, remember? I don’t want your spit all over my face.”

 

Kun looks offended for a second, then he grabs Leo’s face, exaggeratedly purses his lips, making loud smacking noises. Leo tries to twist away as Kun moves in, backing away as they mock-joust around by the edge of the bar. Kun’s tongue is only inches away from his cheek when somebody calls his name.

 

“Leo!”

 

It’s Cesc who’s seemingly appearing out of nowhere, walking towards them. His white shirt is mostly unbuttoned and full of dark stains that make Leo cringe inwardly; red wine and silk is never a good combination.

 

“Awesome, man, didn’t expect to see you here.” Cesc stops right in front of them. Kun is still holding his face. “That your boyfriend?”

 

Kun lets go of him and Leo has to bite his cheek not to laugh out loud. “That’s my roommate, Kun,” he says. Said roommate steps forward again and Leo knows the look he’s giving Cesc. It’s quite endearing actually, Kun getting his claws out; he thinks he might be able to tease him about it later.

 

“And who are you?” Kun folds his arms and builds himself up a little. Leo falters, remembers the last time Kun stepped up in front of him, grabs his hand and pulls him back. Cesc is probably too drunk already to really pay attention anyway. He just smiles.

 

“Cesc, hi. I work with Leo.” He just grabs Kun’s hand from where it’s tucked under his elbow, shakes it with an almost blinding smile. “Our world really is small, isn’t it?” he says as he looks from Kun to Leo and back. “Come on, Piqué’s here too, we’ve got a private booth and all. This is going to be so much fun!”

 

He almost trips as he turns, pulls Kun with him and Leo follows. Halfway across the room, Kun tears himself away, lets himself fall back to Leo and leans close. “Why do they always think I’m your boyfriend? Do I look gay? Do I dress gay?”

 

_You certainly act like it sometimes_ , Leo thinks and smiles to himself. It’s funny, really, that Kun still doesn’t get it, even now that he’s working in a similar environment to him; that the boundaries are basically non-existent and that there aren’t really any indications or clues. Leo’s always liked that about his world, the freedom, in every way – but of course it also gives ground to some confusion. He decides to leave Kun’s questions unanswered.

 

The booth Cesc was talking about turns out to be a rather generous seating area behind a separée that even has its own little bar. Piqué is there, naturally the centre of attention, looking incredibly wasted and paradoxically still like he’s just finished a Burberry shoot. He laughs and blinks, all white teeth and blue eyes and there’s a group of girls and guys who – without exception – all look like they’ve walked straight off the runway. Leo almost breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Pipita amongst them.

 

They settle down quickly, no need or time for any introductions as a bartender puts down a round of clear shots. Piqué practically shoves a glass at Leo and they all down the drink, and then another, and then another Leo loses count and the ability to care or pay attention to anything. At one point, Kun and Pipita bond over something and Leo ends up with a girl squeezed to his side, carefully batting her hand away when it wanders somewhere it’s not supposed to be.

 

Leo’s mind is comfortably fuzzy and he’s swimming in a sea of colours and shapes, pleasantly numb, until Piqué – probably close to midnight – suddenly calls out. Leo turns his head and amidst all the blurriness he hits a wall and everything becomes clear. His blood heats up and freezes at the same time.

 

“Villa!” Piqué gets up, sways slightly, towering over everything but adding an outstretched arm anyway, frantically waving. “Pepe! What’s up, guys?”

 

Leo watches like a statue how Villa moves across the room like a drop of black ink staining a colourful sheet. It’s curious how the crowd almost subconsciously parts around him; some halt and stare, whisper, _stare_. Behind him is a tall man, buff and bald. Leo tries to disappear behind the flickering lights, knowing that he won’t be successful.

 

He can’t stay – his neck is already tingling. He can’t leave – can’t leave Kun now and _here._

 

There’s a moment when Leo’s heartbeat quickens as Villa sees him. Their eyes lock, for just a split second and Leo almost hopes, he almost _wants_ – then somebody steps between them, the booth gets crowded, Villa’s presence working as a magnet and Leo retreats towards the back, bumps into Cesc, who smiles, but kind of looks right through him, which is probably due to the blonde glued to his left. He dodges, finds the bar and a shot glass that hasn’t been emptied yet, downs it. It has immediate effect, makes his head swim and he has no idea what time it is. But now Kun is in his line of view again, chatting animatedly to a girl in a skin-tight dress and Leo steps close, grabs his best friend’s sleeve and pulls him away before the girl’s hand can wander any farther up his leg.

 

Kun’s eyes are glazed and Leo knows that stage of drunkenness from him; he also knows a straight, drunk photographer’s appeal. It’s happened before and although Leo’s probably not the one to ask about moral standards, he won’t let it happen on his watch. He fumbles for his phone, drags Kun into a quiet corner and puts it into his hand.

 

“Call her, okay?” he says and although he’s had a lot to drink, his throat feels like sandpaper. “Wish her a happy New Year.” He dials the number, is surprised that he actually knows it by heart by now, and presses the phone to Kun’s ear. He needs a few moments before his fingers close around it and Leo can step back. He can hear a slurred “Giannina? ‘Nina, I love you – I do”, before every further bit of conversation is swallowed up by music and frantic chatter.

 

 

 

Midnight comes and goes without Leo really paying attention to it. But his chest is burning and his fingers feel numb and when he finally tunnels his way out onto the roof terrace, it’s deserted, clattered with empty bottles and glasses and the air reeks of burn and smoke. Leo sits down on the icy tiles, leans his back against a wall, closes his eyes for a moment and just breathes. His head is carefully prodding, letting him know that this night will be followed by a hangover that will forbid him to move for a day. He’d kill for a glass of water and some painkillers.

 

He can’t tell how much time passes while he’s sitting outside on his own, but then the large glass doors slide open and shut again and Leo turns his head to watch Villa approach and sit down next to him. The drinks are still in his system, so Leo doesn’t move, feels utterly relaxed, but there is a slight tickle making its way up his spine.

Villa keeps his eyes on the city, but Leo can’t tear his gaze away from his face; he looks tired, drained almost, but still more stunning than anyone Leo’s ever met. The model fumbles in his pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes, then he turns his head and looks Leo right in the eyes; Leo’s heart gives a faint stutter.

 

“I’ve quit,” Leo says, but he takes one anyway, watches as Villa shrugs, lights his and then hands him a lighter.

 

“I quit every day,” Villa replies, blows out smoke, looks at him again and Leo thinks that this is probably the moment to pull back or dive in.

 

He hasn’t really made up his mind when he says, “This is a weird party”, and Villa shrugs.

 

“They all are.” He takes a drag, profile absolutely perfect against the dark backdrop of the night. “But they are not work.”

 

Leo gets it, feels a rush he doesn’t want to feel and involuntarily licks his lips that have gone as dry as his throat. “No. It’s not work.”

 

The hand in his neck is soft, fingers icy, making his neck tingle as it lightly pressures and Villa’s lips are just like that as Leo leans in. It’s already familiar although it’s so different from everything else and Leo doesn’t want to, but he lets himself be pulled forward, pulled out of it and into something else he can’t possibly know.

 

 

 

 

Leo finds Kun asleep with his back leaning against the bar, only one of many guests that apparently haven’t been able to make their way home. He hoists him up, waits as Villa quickly talks to the bald guy he arrived with – who looks disturbingly chipper. Then they take a lift downstairs where a familiar car is waiting. The drive is short and quiet and after Kun has dragged himself into his bedroom, entirely unaware of his surroundings, Villa doesn’t give Leo time and space to feel insecure about their shabby flat and his untidy room. Villa’s eyes are on him, only him, and that’s something Leo hasn’t experienced in a while.

 

 

 

 

That’s how it all starts.

 

 

 

 

Leo is woken by the sound of breaking glass. He blinks, sees daylight creeping through his blinds and tiny dust particles dancing through the muggy air. His head doesn’t hurt as much as he was expecting and he’s sobered up enough to know exactly where he is, what he’s done, and whom he’s done it with. And unlike the last time, Leo remembers every detail; every touch, every kiss, every thrust and every arching of his own back. Turning his head to the side, Leo finds the other half of his bed empty, which doesn’t surprise him, doesn’t upset him – but for some reason he doesn’t quite know if he likes it.

 

Leo buries his face in the pillows. He can still smell him.

 

It takes him a few minutes to untangle his heavy limbs and find a pair or shorts, then he slurps out of his room, finds Kun in the kitchen, looking like a zombie. Leo almost steps onto the shards covering the tiled floor. He takes a broom, swipes them aside and then pulls his still almost narcotic best friend into the living room. Kun collapses on the couch and Leo brings him a glass of water and some painkillers, softly tucks the strands of his hair back into place.

 

“I’ll make some toast,” he says and heads for the kitchen again. “And next year, we’re staying in.”

 

Later that afternoon, after watching Kun consume almost an entire loaf of bread in front of the TV, Leo returns to his room and finds a neatly folded piece of paper on his clustered desk. A number is written on it; nothing else.

 

He smiles.

 

 

 

 

It’s the 2nd of January and back to normal business, although everyone in the studio still seems to suffer from faint echoes of a probably rather severe hangover. It’s much quieter and there is no music, but Leo doesn’t mind, he’s just glad to go back to work and get into his rhythm without breaks he neither wants nor needs. He puts his coat onto a hanger and carefully unrolls some patterns he finished last night. Leo doesn’t know where Andrés is, who gave him the job, so he walks up to Javier, who seems puzzled.

 

“You finished them already?”

 

Leo shrugs. “I didn’t have much to do yesterday, so I thought I might as well.”

 

“Okay,” Javier nods, smiles lightly and shakes his head to himself. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll check them and then you can toile it all.”

 

Javier hands everything back to half an hour later with a nod of approval. Leo checked everything ten times himself; he knows the patterns are faultless. Mario and Pedro are running errands around town, so he has an entire table to himself, cuts out the pattern pieces and machines everything before it’s even noon.

 

 

***

 

 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Or something to do? Go annoy Pepe, not me.”

 

Villa laughs, watches Xavi fight with a few metres of tailoring wool. “I’d rather annoy you. And you like me being here, don’t lie. Am I not your muse or something?”

 

Xavi stills, looks up and furrows his brows. Then he snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself, David. Enough people are doing that already.”

 

He shrugs and gets up from his chair, walks over to where Xavi is now draping straight onto a mannequin, eyes focused and squinted in concentration, like he’s performing brain surgery and knowing Xavi as well as he does, Villa can tell he’s blanked out his presence already. Villa never liked it, and that hasn’t changed since – and he wants Xavi to remember that.

 

He leans close. “It’s not my fault that the world thinks I’m beautiful,” he says, perfectly aware that his breath is hitting Xavi’s skin right below his ear.

 

Xavi sighs, but definitely in annoyance and turns his head, looks him dead in the eye. He looks tired, Villa thinks, but Xavi always looks tired, always looks stressed and even haunted sometimes and he wonders, even now, even today, why on earth anyone would do that to themselves.

 

“You think so too,” he continues, not waiting for Xavi to respond. “You were actually the first person to think so.”

 

“And you used to think that my opinion was everything that matters,” Xavi replies in earnest, but then something flickers in his eyes and the heavy atmosphere is pulled off of them like a blanket. “Get over yourself, David, you’re becoming an attention-whore.”

 

Villa laughs out loud and moves back just as a soft knock sounds through the room. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers and takes another step away from Xavi who quickly hammers in a last pin to secure the drape before allowing anyone to enter. And Villa guesses he has to give Leo credit for apparently swallowing down his surprise when he sees him. His eyes widen just slightly and if he isn’t mistaken, a slight blush creeps into his cheeks, but Leo composes himself within a second and focuses his attention on Xavi.

 

“I’ve finished the dresses and the coat,” he says with a quiet voice, looking even smaller than he is, almost timid and so different from the person Villa’s had writhing in the sheets beneath him twice. But it doesn’t surprise him; Xavi tends to have that effect on many people. “Andrés told me to show them to you.”

 

Xavi waves him over and Villa follows Leo with his gaze, thinks about his lithe and sinewy body beneath all these layers and the way his eyes had clouded over when he’d touched him. Those very eyes flicker over to him while Xavi inspects the garments, not dark and hazy this time, but bright and clear and focused. It only lasts a second, then Xavi speaks up and Villa can tell that every fibre of Leo’s being is soaking up whatever it is Xavi is telling him and – Villa doesn’t know what to think about that. At least not yet.

 

But Villa watches. He does wonder what it is that makes him keep looking, makes him want to explore a bit, get under Leo’s skin, somehow. There’s a soft tug in his chest when he thinks about the soft dimples that grace Leo’s face when he smiles. It doesn’t unsettle him like it should.

 

It isn’t long until Leo leaves the atelier again, as quietly as he came in and Villa looks until he shuts the door. He can tell Xavi’s eyes are on him without having to face him. When he does, Xavi’s gaze is scrutinizing. He takes a few moments until he actually speaks up.

 

“Don’t screw up my interns, Villa,” Xavi says.

 

Villa raises his eyebrows. “What are you on about?”

 

“Don’t give me that. I know you.”

 

“Do you, Xavi?”

 

The designer huffs and goes back to the mannequin, eyes on the folds of the fabric. “I saw how you looked at him. And I don’t care if you’re bored. If being everyone’s darling isn’t enough for you anymore, go get a hobby.” Xavi drives a few pins into the dummy’s body with more force than necessary. “Leo has talent. And more importantly, he has drive. Don’t take that from him.”

 

“Why do you think I would?”

 

“Like I said,” Xavi explains, stops, and looks at him again, eyes dark and penetrating and so very familiar. “I know you.”

 

Villa guesses that Xavi really does know him, but he figures that the other sometimes forgets that he knows _him_ just as well. And he probably does see something in Leo, albeit something entirely different, and it’s a rare thing, Xavi taking interest in anything besides fashion; taking interest in any person other than him and Andrés. If he says Leo has talent then well, he probably does, Villa can’t be a judge of that.

 

But Xavi doesn’t know that they’ve already fucked and that Villa’s eager to repeat it and he’s not stupid enough to let Xavi know any of that.

 

“Whatever, Xavi,” he says, sits back down and continues to watch Xavi, who has probably stopped paying attention to him anyway.

 

 

***

 

 

Simply knowing that Villa is upstairs in Xavi’s atelier puts Leo’s mind slightly on edge. He has no idea what they’re talking about, how close they are; they clearly know each other well because they’ve obviously worked together for a long time, but Leo doesn’t know if they’re friends – how much they tell each other. He doesn’t know what to think and he lets his concentration slip and actually forgets for a few minutes how to insert a vent into the back of a skirt. He feels embarrassed when he asks Javier for help and is actually glad when Andrés tells him to go have lunch.

 

He’s just having a cup of coffee in the kitchen when Cesc joins him, looking unusually pale. He flops down opposite Leo and buries his face in his hands with a groan.

 

“I’ll never drink anything ever again. New Year’s resolution right there,” he says.

 

Leo smiles around his cup, doesn’t comment on it, because this kind of resolution is usually forgotten once the next party rolls around. Maybe he should come up with a resolution too. Something about staying away from Villa, but Leo knows that won’t work. He won’t ask for anything to happen, but he guesses if Villa does, he won’t say no. Leo isn’t disillusioned; Villa is so far out of his league that he has no idea why he’d be interested, but he is – and Leo could enjoy it while it lasts.

 

The folded piece of paper remains in the pocket of his coat.

 

 

 

 

It’s only eight when Andrés tells Leo to go home, because there’s nothing more for him to do this day. Leo is sure that Xavi is still in his atelier, and that he will be there until the early hours of the morning, and it’s probably not appropriate for him to want it – but it makes Leo want to stay too. He wants to learn from Xavi and he wants to see him work, but Leo realizes that although he’s gotten closer, it’s still a dream and he’s just an intern.

 

The air outside the building is biting cold, almost starchy. Villa is leaning against a dark, shiny car, smoking. Leo puts his freezing hands into the pockets of his coat, but keeps his distance.

 

“Quitting again?”

 

Villa looks at him and the street lanterns throw shadows and orange light onto his face. He smirks. “Need to keep my figure.” Then he flicks the cigarette bud onto the sidewalk and looks at Leo in a way that makes his skin crawl and heat up despite the cold. “Do you want a ride?”

 

Leo guesses that Villa is most likely offering more than just a ride and he wants to say yes, but he just can’t; not with Kun waiting and the studio hovering behind him like a dark reminder how far he’s come and how much he’s sacrificed and that nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – should ever get in the way of that.

 

“I’m good,” he replies and, as an afterthought, adds, “but thanks.”

 

Villa narrows his eyes at him, not unfriendly, more assessing, observing and Leo feels the urge to squirm, because he doesn’t like people getting under his skin.

 

“Next time, then,” Villa says and for a moment it seems like he wants to add something, wants to _do_ something, and Leo thinks he might, too. But then it’s over, he nods and turns around, sound of his steps drowned out by cars rushing along the streets.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes Leo misses home. Not as often as he probably should and not as much as well, but he does. His family is pretty normal, working dad and stay-at-home mum. He has three siblings, two of them married with kids. Leo doesn’t resent that, but it’s something he’s never wanted. He’s never felt the need to be normal, which is maybe why he’d always felt out of place, always felt like he didn’t belong.

And he still doesn’t know where that is.

 

But he thinks he’s getting close, he thinks he’s found something, something that belongs to him, or that he belongs to. It doesn’t make a difference. And he needs to hold on.

 

 

 

 

The rest of the week passes without any more unexpected visits and the studio is unusually calm and quiet. Andrés says they’re ahead of schedule, seven weeks to go with all fabrics sorted and the patterns being finalized. He says – with a smile – that Xavi is in a good mood and, unlike other times, hasn’t thrown everything overboard in the last minute; Andrés also adds that there’s still time for that, so he doesn’t want to jinx it.

 

Leo spends all of Thursday and Friday with covering buttons, a tedious but necessary task but they’re so small and fiddly that he feels his eyes lose focus many times. When the weekend arrives, his fingertips are almost perforated and the skin so sore that it burns when he steps into the shower and water covers his body. He tips his head back, holds his breath while his face is flooded and Leo allows his mind to disconnect for a few moments. Flexing the sore muscles in his back, stretching the seemingly crooked and twisted curve of his spine, he lets his hands roam and wander. Villa takes over in his head far too easily and Leo can feel heat spread in his belly like a fire. He almost swallows water when he subconsciously has to gasp, then bites down on the inside of his cheek.

 

Leo muffles any name that could’ve left his lips with his arm when he comes, probably shamefully fast.

 

 

 

 

In retrospect, London had probably been a long shot, a risk that he’d taken without really pondering on the consequences. But it had been the place where he needed to be at that time. And in a silly night-time stunt, he and Kun had packed their bags and left Buenos Aires. Working three jobs, they had both picked up the language and somehow managed to get into University. Everything that happened afterwards still feels like a blur. Like a mesh of colours and sensations and ecstasy and exhaustion.

 

He had lived and loved and suffered and quickly realized that it meant more to him than he ever thought possible; that there was no going anywhere else for him, and certainly no going back.

 

 

 

 

Kun has to work on Saturday. It’s some promotional work for a local artist – nothing that Leo knows a lot about – and he has to help out with lighting and equipment. Leo’s quite happy to have the living room to himself all day and spreads out his portfolio, thinks about re-doing some illustration, then decides to start another concept. He’s meeting Kun at Silva’s studio later that evening to grab dinner somewhere, so he decides to go for a long walk before, thinks about Gaudí and Picasso and abstract art and architecture and when he arrives at the small studio, the sun is already setting and his mind is full of ideas.

 

Kun tells him they’re running late when he lets him in, but Leo doesn’t mind waiting. He sits down on an empty equipment box in the corner of the loft and gets out his sketchbook, briefly glances up from time to time. Kun is balancing on a stool, holding two sets of lights, illuminating two performance artists in ridiculous costumes. Kun’s boss, Silva, is frantically clicking away, camera flashing; he’s a small man, probably around Leo’s height, with chiselled features and soft strands of hair that make him look incredibly young, which he might be, Leo doesn’t know. And unlike him, Kun does have other things to talk about than work, so Leo barely knows anything about the renowned photographer.

 

Not much time has passed when a voice startles him and Leo can just stop himself from flinching.

 

“I guess this world really is a village,” Villa says and looks down at him, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards and Leo almost drops his pen as he steadies himself and his sketchbook in his lap. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

Well, Leo didn’t expect to see Villa here either, if he’s honest, but he just nods into Kun’s direction, clawing his fingers into the edges of his sketchbook to keep focused. “I’m just waiting for my friend.”

 

Villa’s gaze flickers over to Kun and then back again.  “You didn’t call,” he says.

 

“I’ve been busy,” Leo explains, because it’s true, it always is and it most likely will stay that way for a long time if Leo has his way.

 

“I guessed. Xavi is a real slave driver, huh?”

 

He looks at him and Leo isn’t sure how to interpret his glance, whether Villa has meant that to be ironic or honest or something else, so he doesn’t reply and Villa picks up on his confusion, barks out a laugh before pulling over another box and settling on it.

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t sell you out if you say he is. It’s a fact.”

 

“No, I mean,” Leo feels the need to clarify. “It’s good. I enjoy it.”

 

Villa folds his arms, looks and looks and there’s something in his eyes that Leo can’t put his finger onto, so he lowers his gaze, notices the delicate topstitching on the panels of Villa’s leather jacket, the shiny buckles, the modern cut – it’s a Balenciaga that Leo would probably kill to get his hands on, just to take it apart and see it’s inner life.

 

Villa sighs. “You fashion people are insane,” and it should probably feel like an insult, but there’s an affectionate undertone to the way Villa rolls those words off his lips and they sound like he’s said them before. Silva’s camera continuously clicks in the background. “How do you know him?”

 

“From home,” Leo replies, meeting Villa’s eyes again. “We grew up together.”

 

“And home is?”

 

Leo shrugs without knowing why; but maybe he does. “Small town in Argentina, you wouldn’t have heard of it.” He wants to add more, doesn’t and watches as Kun nearly falls off his stool readjusting the lights. “How do you know Silva?”

 

Perhaps a superfluous question; Silva is a photographer and Villa a model. They must have worked together many times. But there’s this certain way Villa observes the scene in front of them, some sort of familiarity which has nothing to do with the work Silva’s doing.

 

“We met at University, years ago.” He raises his eyebrows when he sees Leo’s surprised expression. “What?” Villa chuckles. “Did you think I was born in front of the camera? Or on a catwalk?”

 

His eyes sparkle and Leo can feel himself blush, lowers his face and trains it on his sketchbook, follows the soft lines of his pencil in his mind, thinks of different ways to twist and drape something.

 

“No, I just – I don’t know,” Leo says more to the page in front of him than Villa. “I mean, I don’t know you, so…” He trails off, resists the urge to scratch his neck, see if it feels as hot as he thinks, because a slow burn is slowly creeping up his back and Leo suddenly wants a big coat with a high and stiff collar, heavily interfaced so that it doesn’t slouch down.

 

“You don’t,” Villa confirms and his face softens when Leo raises his eyes again. “I don’t mind changing that, though. You could call.”

 

And before Leo can realize it, he’s answered. “I will.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

“Was that him?”

 

The door has just shut behind Leo and his friend and Villa turns to face Silva. “What?”

 

Silva crouches down, carefully puts his camera into a wadded box. “Pepe said you left the New Year’s party with some kid.”

 

He takes a few steps that echo endlessly through the hollow room, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Remind me again why he’s my agent,” Villa mutters and watches how Silva’s lips curl up into a soft smile. “So what if it was?”

 

Silva wipes his hands on his trousers, gets up and disappears into a small room bordering his studio, calls over his shoulder. “Didn’t think he’d be your type. Who is he, anyway?”

 

Villa stays behind and hesitates. He knows he’s under scrutiny here, but there’s only so much he wants to tell Silva, only so much he thinks Silva needs to know and also should know. Yes, they’re friends, but there are things they never talk about, their respective romantic – or less romantic, in Villa’s case – endeavours definitely being one of them.

 

“He’s in fashion,” he simply answers eventually and Silva reappears, carrying a leather satchel and a laptop bag.

 

“Really? Better be cautious then, you know how they get. That’s why I don’t directly work with designers anymore.”

 

Villa raises his eyebrows at him. “You just don’t work with Xavi,” and he wants to bite his tongue immediately after, because Silva’s face goes blank, defensive.

 

“You know why,” the photographer says and walks past Villa, towards the door. It’s almost ten, pitch-black outside.

 

“I do,” Villa replies. “But that doesn’t mean I get it. You still talk to me,” he says as Silva locks the studio and they step out into the cold.

 

“I didn’t talk to you for six months.”

 

“But you do now. Why don’t you –”

 

Silva abruptly stops and Villa bumps into his small form. His face isn’t angry, but it’s not friendly either. “Villa, seriously, just drop it. Don’t make me stop talking to you again.” He takes a deep breath and puts on a most likely very forced smile. “So, that kid? You seem smitten. Who does he work for?”

 

Now it’s Villa’s time to stop and Silva turns around to face him and he doesn’t even have to answer the question. Silva’s eyebrows go up, then down, then furrows them; calculating, observing, assessing.

 

“Hm,” he says, readjusts the shoulder strap of his bag. “Maybe he is your type after all.”

 

Villa doesn’t quite get it, but Silva doesn’t elaborate, only turns around again and continues to walk.

 

He figures he’s missing something.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“I need coffee.”

 

It’s the first time that Leo sees Andrés looking less than composed. When he comes down the stairs around noon on Tuesday, he looks tired and stressed and Leo fears the worst when Andrés sits down at one of the pattern tables. Pedro immediately jumps up and Leo assumes he’s getting Andrés the desired caffeine boost. Everybody immediately drops what they’re working on.

 

“He’s done it again, hasn’t he?” Bastian says, German accent heavy in his voice and forehead full of frown-lines.

 

Leo wonders what exactly the patterncutter is talking about when Pedro sets a steaming cup down in front of Andrés, who nods and buries his face in his hands.

 

“How much is it?”

 

Andrés looks at Javier and manages a weak but sarcastic smile. “Almost all the knitwear. Most fastenings. He wants buckles, no zips. And we need to change most collars for the menswear outfits.”

 

Leo feels his own stomach drop as all faces around the table become pale.

 

Bastian clears his throat. “He does realize we only have six weeks until we go to Paris, right?”

 

“Perfectly aware of it,” Andrés replies. “I tried to change his mind, but – well, you know him. He’s already working on the pieces that he wants to replace the knitwear with, so just keep doing whatever you’re doing right now and I’ll give an update as soon as possible.”

 

He empties his coffee in one go and is down the stairs in no time, probably to let everyone know about the changes, maybe also about the current stage of emergency, because six weeks is nothing when it comes to a forty outfit collection. But it also leaves no time to panic. It just means working faster, longer and more efficient.

 

 

 

 

He loves fashion. Every tiny fibre of his being is addicted to it. In the few weeks he did have off in the past years, Leo had fallen into a hole; feeling useless, meaningless and just incredibly cold.

 

Fashion breathes life into him.

 

Its rush is basically all Leo lives for.

 

 

 

 

The repercussions of Xavi’s decision can be felt all week. There’s more tension, more underlying stress and lips tightly pressed together to hold back curses they want to throw at him but don’t, because the designer works twice as hard as everyone else. When Leo leaves the studio around ten or eleven in the evening, the lights in his atelier still creep through the crack beneath the door and when Leo comes back at seven or eight the following morning, he’s already locked himself in. Leo actually isn’t sure that he’s even left the studio at one point. Going by the worrying expression that is now constantly gracing Andrés’ face, Xavi probably hasn’t.

 

Leo doesn’t feel stressed. He is working more, but he keeps his head down, focuses on his tasks that span from patterncutting to machining to sampling and practically everything else. He does what he’s told and that’s different; different from the stress Xavi must be under from making crucial decisions and important choices, because it’s everything to him. Leo remembers his own graduate collection and how every seam had seemed to mean the world and how every smallest detail felt like it decided between life and death.

 

That changes on Friday. Leo is earlier than usual, because he couldn’t sleep, because he was wide awake all night trying to figure out a pattern he’d been working on the day before and when he’d found a solution in the early morning hours, he couldn’t wait. It’s not even seven when he walks through the front door and of course, Cesc is still nowhere to be seen or heard.

When he’s on the stairs leading to the second floor, he can hear shuffling and muffled voices and Leo briefly wonders if he should turn around again, walk back down or wait right where he is, because he doesn’t want to intrude. It seems silly though, so he takes the last steps and when he rounds the corner he can see Andrés and Xavi, the latter crouching down, rummaging through a box of fabric scraps.

 

“Xavi, I know you think we can do this,” Andrés says. He’s wearing red socks. Leo wonders if they are his angry socks. “But we’ve just got over a month. We’re a small team and I know you like to keep it that way, but I think we might need to hire another patterncutter.”

 

“We don’t,” Xavi replies, keeps looking through the box, so he doesn’t see Andrés raise his eyebrows at him. “It’d take too long to get anyone to familiarize with the collection. And this close to the shows, there won’t be a decent patterncutter available anyway.”

 

Leo hesitantly steps closer at this point, because it seems odd to just hover in the doorway and the floorboards creak. Andrés turns his head towards him and smiles, Xavi looks up and his face shows a mix of complete exhaustion and utter exhilaration and his eyes are so intense that Leo accidently swallows down his next breath, because – he’s not sure. He just _wants. That._ Whatever it is.

 

“Morning Leo.” It’s Xavi who greets him, to his surprise. Then he glances over his shoulder to Andrés. “You’ve seen the patterns he made the other day. We don’t need another patterncutter. Leo can do it.”

 

And that makes Leo’s breath really hitch and he feels dizzy with something, can only watch in a daze how Xavi finds what he’s been looking for and disappears again. Andrés stays in the room with him, smiles, then pats his shoulder and leaves to find Victor.

 

He can do it. He _has_ to do it.

 

It’s becoming everything to him too.

 

 

 

 

 

_“I didn’t think you’d call.”_

 

“I said I would.”

 

He sounds confident, but Leo really isn’t. Kun is away for the weekend, working in Madrid, he thinks, and he’s overtaking their living room. Leo has about a hundred straps of leather spread out and double the amount of buckles and they all need to be put together, hand-stitched and glued and hammered. Everyone in the studio had gotten a fair share and Leo’s hands are perforated and sore because his fingers keep slipping on the slick leather. He winces as he slips again.

 

_“What are you doing?”_ Villa asks from the other end of the line, sounding puzzled.

 

“Sewing belts,” Leo answers and sucks on his fingertip, because it’s started to bleed and he doesn’t want to stain the leather.

 

_“On a Saturday?”_

“Well, I’ve got quite a lot of them. We need them for the fittings next week.”

 

_“Can I pry you away from it?”_ His tone is suggestive, but not _that_ kind and Leo stills.

 

“Depends,” he says and already, he can feel his skin tingle and his insides itch and he can almost see Villa, in dark layers, soft jersey; perfect, beautiful.

 

_“How about a walk? Some fresh air?”_

Leo raises his eyebrows, glances out the window. “It’s raining.”

 

_“That’s the point,”_ Villa says and laughs softly. It sends a shiver down Leo’s spine. _“Nobody is going to be out there.”_

 

It’s not hard to recognize Villa, although he has the hood of his coat pulled down. But the square is otherwise deserted and Leo doesn’t think there’s anyone in this city who can wear Xavi’s intricately cut, yet still slouchy harem trousers for women and still look masculine.

 

The sky is a dark grey and rain falls hard onto stone, steadily drumming. Leo is already soaked and cold and his fingers are numb in his pockets. But then Villa looks up and spots him too and Leo’s presses his lips tightly together, because his heart leaps so much that he fears it’s going to jump up his throat. There’s a moment of hesitance in Leo’s steps and it strikes him like it always does when he’s face to face with Villa and he wonders why and how and what to do.

 

For a second, Leo has no clue what to do. Then Villa straightens, steps forward and before Leo can even blink, he has firmly framed his face, thumbs icily brushing across his cheeks. And Villa’s lips are just as cold and they should make Leo stutter and freeze, but before he knows he’s doing it, he’s already pressing closer, wanting without remembering that he was even craving it.

 

Villa steals his breath for a few endless minutes and Leo can taste the rain on his tongue, little droplets tickling his neck, just where Villa’s hands are holding him in place. When he lets go, Leo just swallows down a sigh and lets himself be pulled down a narrow allow, feeling light-headed and he only snaps back into it when they’ve already walked around the _Barri Gòtic_ for an hour. They don’t say a word, but Villa pulls him close, wet material of their coats sticking together, until they eventually end up at some shady bar where wads of heavy smoke hover just below the low ceiling.

 

Villa orders something that tastes like mulled wine, just stronger and they lapse into conversation; trivial things, things Leo forgets every time he looks up from his cup. He’s different, Leo thinks, different than he expected, although he’s not quite sure what he did actually expect. Villa is oozing confidence and charisma and Leo can see how designers and photographers are in love with him. He’s hypnotic, surprisingly easy to talk to, but he has a specific edge, some odd and indescribable imperfection that fashion eats up and Leo eats it up to, gets sucked in and before he can properly process everything that happens, he’s on his back, trapped between Villa’s body and a mattress and touches and tastes and kisses skin that is far too perfect for him.

 

 

 

 

Leo ends up spending the night and most of the next day, because whenever he makes up his mind to leave, Villa gives him a look that switches off any common sense Leo possesses. When he returns to his flat in the evening he feels so guilty that he stays up all night to finish the belts.

 

 

 

 

He needs ten cups of coffee to function the following Monday and as soon as his head hits the pillow at midnight, he’s out like a light. Villa texts him, but Leo forgets to reply.

 

 

 

 

Womenswear fittings are much easier than menswear. Leo likes that there are less restrictions, more freedom in the way things can fit and flare. Women can wear anything and Leo thinks that’s the beauty of it, that’s the beauty of Xavi’s creations, because they’re different and striking and unconventional and that’s what his clients want to be. All men ever do is blend in – most of them anyway.

 

Piqué is certainly not one of them, Leo thinks, when the tall model wanders in with a smile that takes up most of his face. He flirts shamelessly with the two girls they’ve got for the day, which doesn’t turn out the way Piqué wants it too, most likely because he showers Cesc with similar attention. Leo sees Xavi roll his eyes and Andrés bite back a smile and has to smile himself.

 

His good mood makes way to tension when Villa arrives, fashionably late, and he leans close to Xavi, whispers in his ear, laughs and makes Xavi laugh too, which is probably a miracle, but Leo can feel his chest clench, keeps his eyes on the hemline of a skirt he’s fitting. He tries to focus, tries to listen to whatever it is Andrés is saying to him, but he can’t help glancing over his shoulder every few minutes where Xavi is fitting on Villa, quietly talking and laughing and smiling.

 

Leo suddenly feels like he’s intruding. He’s not proud of it, but he avoids Villa for the rest of the day, not exactly knowing why.

 

He runs into Pipita just as he’s leaving the studio at ten. Villa and Xavi are still in the designer’s upstairs atelier.

 

“You okay?” Pipita asks him as they start to walk.

 

“Just tired,” Leo replies and fishes for his emergency pack of cigarettes in the many pockets of his coat.

 

“Villa?”

 

Leo shrugs, lights up and has to cough, because he’s not used to it anymore. He hasn’t smoked since that New Year’s party. “No, just – generally.” Not wanting Pipita to press the subject, he searches his head for anything that could divert the conversation. “How are things with Ezequiel?”

 

That seems to do the trick, maybe not like intended, because Pipita furrows his brows and huffs. “Fuck knows. He’s moving to bloody Lisbon. Lisbon, can you believe that? What the hell is in Lisbon?”

 

Leo’s never been, so he doesn’t really know. “Maybe it’s a nice city?”

 

Pipita rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Who needs him anyway? At least now I can focus on work and Paris and don’t have to listen to his whining because I don’t have time. Different priorities, man, absolute relationship killer, right?”

 

Leo wouldn’t know. He’s never had time for a relationship.

 

 

 

***

 

 

“You look fucking awful.”

 

Villa thinks that he’s still being nice by saying that, because Xavi looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, hasn’t eaten just as long and his eyes are red and overshadowed. The stubble on his face is longer than he usually allows it to be, but Villa knows that Xavi is at a point where he doesn’t care about anything but this collection. He’d find it frustrating and annoying, but right now – he just doesn’t have the energy to start an argument he will never win.

 

Xavi just hums and continues to hammer something into his laptop, trying to keep his eyes focused, but Villa knows it’s a lost cause. He guesses it’ll probably be another hour, at most, until Xavi’s body just gives in.

 

“I mean it, Xavi. You need at least eight hours of sleep or you’ll be dead before the show. If I have to drag you home by your hair, I will.”

 

Xavi stills, looks at him with a glance that says something like _I’d like to see you try_ , but then the door opens and Andrés peeks in and Xavi’s expression softens, intentionally or not.

 

“I’m off,” Andrés says to both of them with a tired smile, and then, just to Xavi, “Are you going home tonight?”

 

Xavi is about to reply, but Villa beats him to it. “I’ll make sure he will,” and he doesn’t miss what treacherously flickers across Andrés’ expression for a second, sure that Xavi does miss it, like he misses many things. But then Andrés smiles again, nods and leaves.

 

Villa sighs. “I have no idea how he puts up with you every day.”

 

Xavi shuts his laptop and rubs his eyes and Villa can see the six rings shimmer on various fingers, even now, exhausted and tired; Xavi never takes them off. One for each year. Villa’s always known Xavi to be uncharacteristically nostalgic.

 

“I don’t, either,” Xavi says.

 

It sounds so honest that Villa almost pities him.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

It used to be different. But now, Leo doesn’t think that sleeping with somebody really is an issue. It’s the getting to know a person that makes things tricky.

 

Leo isn’t an idiot. He might not be great with words, and he might not be able to express himself properly from time to time; but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know about feelings. That short rush of jealousy he’d felt when he’d seen Villa interact with Xavi – it seems silly now, ridiculously stupid if Leo’s being completely honest. He has no right and there is no reason, but it gives Leo to understand that he’s somehow gotten into something he can neither grasp nor control.

 

And it’s nothing he is particularly used to.

 

 

 

 

When Leo finishes work on Friday, Villa is waiting outside the studio. He’s too stunned and surprised to react in any way and at first he assumes that Villa is just going to walk past him to see Xavi; but he doesn’t. Villa stays right there and looks at him with that half-smile of his that leaves soft lines around his mouth. Leo thinks he moves first, for whatever reason and afterwards he’d wish he had this sort of courage regarding other things as well.

 

He acts like the impulsive teenager he hasn’t been in a long time as he presses his body close to Villa and Leo’s fingers slip on his leather jacket before they cross behind Villa’s neck. His lips are cold, faintly taste of smoke and cinnamon and things Leo is yet to know. The air is crisp, almost sharp and somewhere between them it heats up and makes Leo’s skin burn.

 

“Come home with me.”

 

The words brush against his cheek, lap around his ear and Leo has already made up his mind before the last word has echoed out; and Villa knows that too.

 

The ride in the car takes only ten minutes, but it’s ten minutes too long and Villa’s bedroom seems too far. They tumble out of the elevator and into the apartment and don’t make it past the hallway. The small of Leo’s back hits something solid and he doesn’t hesitate to push himself up, slide back, fumbles for Villa’s belt and pulls him between his legs.

 

Something in Leo’s head just switches off after that. It feels good, almost too good, the way Villa rids him of all the layers his wearing, and how he strips him bare and just looks at him. Their movements become almost frantic and urgent and Leo moves back, something falls to the floor and breaks, and Villa is looming over him in all his perfection. Leo expects him to seamlessly continue the rather rough encounter and he doesn’t mind, he wants that. It’s almost startling when fingertips softly trace his face, along his jaw and Villa’s dark eyes are so focused and dark that Leo suddenly feels like he’s drowning.

 

He reaches out, subconsciously or not, trying to resurface and Villa takes his hand, hot skin pulsating against skin and it makes Leo breathe again; widens his chest and opens his lung and heart. Leo holds on so much that it hurts, but it doesn’t matter as Villa starts to move, rocking against him and if Leo could take him closer, deeper; he would.

  
In an odd moment of clarity, Leo thinks that this might be one of those imperfect moments that will imprint itself in his mind; the barely lit hallway, a sturdy table, shards on the floor. Villa looking at him like the rest of the world looks at Villa.

 

 

 

 

“Why fashion?”

 

Leo turns his head and the soft pillow eats up half of his face. It’s dark. Only a faint glow of streetlamps filters through the curtains. He can barely make out Villa’s contours next to him.

 

“Why are you asking?”

 

“Because I’d like to know.”

 

Maybe it’s that simple, but Leo doesn’t think anyone’s ever asked him this. At least not the people who matter – not that he’s sure that Villa’s one of them.

 

“I don’t really know,” he answers. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. It’s just what I’ve wanted to do.”

 

“Why?”

 

Villa’s fingers trace over his hipbone and Leo’s mind stutters for a moment. He can’t think of any reason, and he can’t think of any reason why Villa would want to know.

 

“Because,” Leo starts, but he can’t finish. There are thoughts in his head, of course; images and memories and feelings that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. Leo knows that people don’t get it, don’t get him and he doesn’t blame them. It’s just easier to keep things to himself.

 

“You’re not a talker,” and this time it’s not a question, thus Leo doesn’t feel the need to answer.

 

He doesn’t need to talk. He always felt that his clothes make enough noise.

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you like him?” Kun asks him randomly one night the following week, when they’re lying on the couch, empty Thai takeaway cartons on the table in front of them.

 

Leo wants to give a standard reply, shrug it off, but then he finds himself saying, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

“Like you liked Ronnie?”

 

“No,” Leo replies. “Not like Ronnie.”

 

Kun looks at him for a few moments, chews on his lower lip. “I guess that’s a good thing.”

 

Leo guesses it probably is.

 

 

 

 

 

In retrospect, Leo should’ve known, should’ve expected that. The industry is small, and the people pulling the strings are all rubbing shoulders with each other. He knows how many strings tie New York to London to Milan and to Paris and for some reason Leo had hoped that Barcelona wasn’t as tightly intertwined. Leo doesn’t talk about things, but that doesn’t mean others don’t.

 

Paris is less than a month away and they’re still behind schedule, despite working fifteen hours on average each day. Leo is doing patterns, and nothing but patterns; he alters the ones they already have or creates new ones from Xavi’s designs. By then it’s not so unusual anymore to go upstairs into Xavi’s atelier to show him the result, but Leo still feels lightheaded from time to time, still gets startstruck every time Xavi says his name or looks at him or talks to him in general.

 

So there’s nothing unusual about the situation at first. Andrés tells Leo to take one of the new toiles to Xavi and Leo does. The atelier is cluttered with sheets of paper and polaroids and Leo is careful to step around them, can’t help but glance at the new line-up. Xavi takes the toile and up close, Leo can see the shadows in his face, the stress hidden behind his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands because he probably hasn’t slept again and is running on caffeine alone.

 

When Xavi puts the sample dress to the side and asks Leo to sit, he knows something is up. His stomach drops and his heart does too and the first flight of panic grabs him. Before Xavi can even say a word, Leo has already thought of all possible things the designer might say to him – except for one.

 

“I met up with one of my investors last weekend. Guardiola,” he says and Leo subconsciously holds his breath. “He holds shares of PPR and I’m sure you know that the company owns many brands. They also own _Maradona_.” Xavi folds his hands on the table, looks at Leo, and Leo thinks his heart stops. “I worked with Ronaldinho in the early days, a couple of years ago. And we talked about him, his work – why he had to leave.” He pauses, twists the rings around his fingers and Leo is beginning to feel nauseous. “But I guess you know that too, right? Why they sacked him.”

 

Leo has no clue if Xavi expects him to answer. He thinks Xavi already knows everything there is to know anyway. His voice is lost somewhere on its way up his throat and he can only silently open and close his mouth, feels stupid and anxious and just –

 

“It’s quite sad, really,” Xavi eventually continues to fill the tense silence. “I still believe he is a fashion genius. But he was too easily distracted, not focused, got used to the praise; and he lost interest.  And even if he lost inspiration too, a designer should never – _copy.”_

Xavi says it in a way, eyes set on Leo, that makes him think that he peels away his skin and sees _everything_ that’s in Leo’s head, without exception.

 

“But I don’t need to tell you that. I also don’t need to tell you how talented _you_ are. The thing is, there’s always somebody around who is better; somebody who is more talented. The secret is that you just have to want it more than them.”

 

Xavi’s eyes look straight into his and Leo feels his chest tighten.

 

“You can’t allow people to walk over you, no matter who it is.”

 

He gets the sinking feeling that it’s not just Ronnie who Xavi is referring to.

 

 

 

 

Leo literally runs into Cesc on his way out. He just needs some fresh air for a few minutes, he just – he can’t. It’s all too much and the stress, he thinks, it’s getting to him; Paris, Xavi, Villa, _Ronnie._ He only needs to collect himself, a few minutes, then he can get back to work.

 

But Cesc grabs his sleeve and holds him back. Leo is quite close to just snapping at him. Then he remembers that it’s just Cesc and Piqué is hovering right behind him and it doesn’t have anything to do with them. They both look concerned.

 

“Shit, Leo, you okay?” Cesc asks. “You look like you’re seen a ghost.”

 

“I’m fine,” Leo says, like a reflex. “Just stressed, need to clear my head.”

 

“No offence, man,” Piqué chimes in with all his tall perfection. “But you look like you need a drink.”

 

Leo guesses he probably needs more than just _a_ drink. “I’ve got to work. I just need to have a smoke, get some air.”

 

“Half an hour won’t make a difference,” Piqué insists and before Leo can realize what’s happening, he’s being dragged out the door and into the small café across the road, which is entirely deserted; the weather is foul, has been for days.

 

Cesc gets three steaming mugs and Piqué reaches into his pocket, produces a flask and pours a fair amount of clear liquid into each one. Leo raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on it, because Cesc doesn’t say anything either. He takes a sip and it’s strong, but weirdly enough, it feels like it’s cleansing his system, returning his focus. Piqué sighs heavily, almost exasperated.

 

“Seriously, you guys are just nuts. Insane. Always stressed and miserable and on edge. You need to live a little. _Xavi_ needs to live a little. Maybe I can talk Villa into taking him back.”

 

Leo almost chokes on his drink. It stings in the back of his throat, but neither Cesc nor Piqué notice.

 

“I thought Xavi broke up with Villa,” Cesc says as Leo is still trying to catch on.

 

“Sorry, but what?” He tries to sound indifferent, when on the inside, he’s actually freaking out. Too many things have happened today. Everything just seems fucked up right now. Leo takes another sip of his spiked coffee.

 

Piqué raises his eyebrows, suddenly grinning widely, seemingly very eager to share gossip, a secret – Leo makes a mental note never to confide in him. “You don’t know? Fucking hell, you’re in for a treat, _enano_!”

 

“Am I?” Leo thinks he’s rather in for a shock. He can see Cesc roll his eyes.

 

“Definitely. It’s kind of a top secret thing, low profile and all, but it’s better than any soap opera.” The model empties his cup in one go. “Pepe spilled the beans when we all got trashed a while ago. Because this one goes way back. The story, I mean. Xavi and Villa met at Uni and it was a hallelujah from the heavens, inspiration and muse and all that. But at that time, Villa was seeing Silva. The photographer, you know?”

 

Leo gapes at him.

 

“Apparently it got quite nasty. Tears and break-up and Silva still doesn’t want to have anything to do with Xavi. That guy’s good at holding a grudge. Xavi and Villa hit it off anyway, for some years even. But well – we all know Xavi. Eventually, Villa got fed up.”

 

“I swear it was Xavi who ended it,” Cesc says, to which Piqué raises his eyebrows.

 

“Xavi probably didn’t even realize they were in a relationship. Or that Villa had moved out or anything,” Piqué justifies and Leo – despite feeling painfully overwhelmed – suddenly feels the urge to defend Xavi. He doesn’t think Xavi is the bad guy in this. Xavi has priorities and Leo can understand that and he admires him for his drive and determination. Piqué and Cesc continue to argue back and forth for a while longer, but Leo zones out.

 

It’s all too much. He’s not only sleeping with David fucking Villa; Leo’s sleeping with his boss’s ex. And he’s in deep shit.

 

 

 

 

Villa calls him the following Saturday and Leo still feels so detached that he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to until Villa says he’s coming over. Leo has a good fifteen minutes to feel self-conscious about his tiny, cheap flat, about the random camera equipment lying around, some dirty dishes and most of all the tons of sketches and patterns scattered in his room. It’s a far cry from Villa’s fancy apartment with lift and valet and a shower that could hold ten people.

 

There’s a moment when Villa is standing in his hallway and Kun is lurking on the couch, when Leo isn’t sure how this is going to turn out; whether Kun will get up and pounce or stay slouched down. His best friend glares at Villa and in return, Villa raises his eyebrows at him, almost challenging. But then Kun turns his attention back to the TV, ups the volume and the tension is gone.

 

“Sorry for the mess,” Leo starts as soon as they’re in his room, but Villa cuts him off before he can continue.

 

Nothing is soft about the way Villa kisses him. Their teeth clash and Villa takes both hands to tilt Leo’s head, bites his neck and tears at his clothes. It reminds Leo of the first time they fucked, which seems so long ago when it actually isn’t and Leo wonders why it feels that way. He thinks of the buttons of Villa’s shirt, how he doesn’t want any thread to come loose, any tear in the expensive fabric and Villa lets out a frustrated groan, takes a quick step back and pulls it over his head.

 

He’s just so – and Leo doesn’t understand any of this, now even less than before. He and Xavi and Villa and Silva and just _all of it_. Leo is trembling, on the inside or outside, all the same and it only stops when Villa pushes him down and Leo can dig his hands into his shoulders, scrape his nails along his sides. In the back of his mind, Leo is aware that Kun is just in the other room and God knows what his friend will say to him once Villa leaves again.

 

But Villa is not leaving just yet. He is kissing him deep, pulling at his lips with his teeth, ridding Leo of his trousers with precision. Leo feels dizzy with want and arousal and maybe there’s that twinge of jealousy again that suddenly makes sense and seems inappropriately justified, and Villa is too precise, takes too much time and Leo can’t bear it. He pushes Villa off him only to pin him back down again and straddles him. Villa makes a surprised noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

 

“Just,” Leo breathes heavily. He wants to say _Just fuck me, just look at me_ , but the words die on his tongue alongside all those other things he keeps in his mind. It’s so much that he thinks his head might burst any second.

 

Instead of talking, Leo just acts, opens the buckle of Villa’s belt, tosses it to the side and lets Villa’s jeans follow straight after. They struggle for dominance after that, Villa being reluctant to give up control and Leo equally determined to set the pace this time. Sheets rustle and the old bedframe groans and at one point, Leo’s head hits the headboard and he sees stars. He draws red lines on Villa’s skin that – in an odd moment of focus – remind him of the grainlines that grace every pattern he makes for Xavi.

 

Leo tries to turn them over again, but Villa grabs his hips and eventually, Leo doesn’t give a fuck who’s setting the pace. The sound of skin against skin echoes, almost obscene and he bites down on his own arm to stop himself from crying out. Leo blindly reaches out, fingers slippery with sweat, draws Villa close until their chests are flush, then he buries his face in Villa’s neck, digs his teeth in and feels his racing pulse.

 

He comes harder than he’s ever come in his life and isn’t quite sure if he actually blacks out or just falls asleep from exhaustion.

 

 

 

 

When Leo wakes up, for a few short moments, he doesn’t know where he is. He feels oddly warm and for a second he can smell his mother’s _palmeritas_ and Argentine air, drenched with sun. Then he feels a soft tickle up his spine and it comes back to him. When Leo blinks and opens his eyes, he sees Villa rake the tip of his fingers up his bare back. He has an odd expression on his face and Leo wants to reach out and smoothen out the frown lines on his forehead.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Leo furrows his brows. Villa’s voice is husky. “Tell you what?”

 

“What Ronaldinho did.” He feels his stomach drop and it must show on his face as well, because Villa sighs and his expression softens. “Come on, give me some credit. I know people, just like Xavi does. And people talk.”

 

“Why would I tell you?” Leo almost snaps, can just manage to still sound calm, but he moves, rolls away from Villa, then sits up, sheets falling off his chest. “It’s nothing.”

 

“Nothing? He took your designs without crediting you.”

 

“That’s not what happened,” Leo replies.

 

“Then what did?” Villa sits up as well, but Leo doesn’t look at him.

 

“It’s just – it was stupid, okay? We talked about my own work and my plans for my final collection and I told him about my concept and ideas and he –” Leo has to break himself off. He’s never talked about this. Not to anyone besides Kun. And even Kun doesn’t know all the details. It just hurts too much.

 

“And he used them,” Villa finishes for him. “Did you confront him?”

 

“No,” Leo says and lets out a dry laugh. “Kun did when he found out. The whole thing just blew up, got ugly. I got on with it.”

 

“You were sleeping with him, weren’t you?” His head spins around and he stares, just stares at Villa who appears perfectly calm and collected and Leo – Leo doesn’t know what to say to that. “You should’ve told me,” Villa continues and Leo feels a sting of anger.

 

“You didn’t tell me about Xavi,” he says before he can stop himself and he almost feels guilty for feeling smug when Villa’s eyes widen minimally for the fracture of a second. “I know people too.”

 

“Hm.” Villa gives a joyless smile. “Guess we’re even then.”

 

Leo raises his eyebrows at him. “Are we?”

 

“You tell me.”

 

He lowers his eyes again, absentmindedly lets his fingers brush over all the burn marks covering his hands. “It doesn’t really matter, no?”

 

Villa is quiet for a few moments. “I guess not.”

 

Leo gets the feelings it’s not what he wanted to hear.

 

 

 

***

 

 

“I swear,” Victor says, or rather mumbles into his drink, “one day I will end up strangling him.” He puts his glass down, sighs, then looks at Andrés. “I’ll sing a fucking hallelujah once the last model is down the runway in Paris.”

 

They’re in a small restaurant just around the corner from Andrés’s apartment. Victor had taken it upon himself to take him out for dinner, because he knows Andrés well and he knows that he would’ve stayed up all night to work on orders.

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“No, I do,” Victor replies. “I really do. And then I’ll take my week off and I don’t want to see his face or hear his voice.”

 

“Are you going to Tenerife?”

 

Victor breaks out in a smile. “I’m going to teach Dylan how to swim.”

 

Andrés raises his eyebrows, but he can’t help but smile too. “Isn’t the water a little too cold in March?”

 

Victor shrugs. “Then the pool will have to do. You’re still invited to come, you know?”

 

“I know, thanks. But I’m going east with Xavi. Vietnam, Laos, China. Research for the new collection.”

 

“You’re kidding, right?” Victor empties his drink, waves a waiter over and orders another one for himself and Andrés, although Andrés hasn’t even finished his. “Aren’t you getting sick of him?”

 

Andrés smiles to himself, looks at the glass in his hands. Sometimes he feels incredibly tired, stressed and on edge and sometimes he wants to yell at Xavi, wants him to just stop, just breathe and look at him. But he doesn’t, because Andrés knows him, knows how much the pressure has mounted on him, because he remembers how it was when it was just the two of them, years ago, in a tiny basement studio without heating.

 

“We’re a family, Victor,” he says eventually. “We annoy each other from time to time, but we always support each other, no matter what, you know that and you do it too.”

 

There’s something mischievous in Victor’s expression when he says, “Family, huh? You sure that’s how you want to refer to Xavi?”

 

Andrés thinks he might be blushing, but he’s not sure. “Stop mocking me. You know what I mean.”

 

“I do,” Victor replies, still grinning, but then he reaches over and squeezes Andrés’s hand. “But if we’re family and I’m your brother, it is my duty to mock you.”

 

Truth is, Andrés actually doesn’t mind.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Leo doesn’t hate Mondays. Mostly he actually looks forward to them, because it means a fresh start, it means back to work and just on with it. Today, he hates it. He feels irritated without knowing why, then Kun uses up all hot water and his shower is cold; he accidently spills coffee over his favourite jumper and drops a bowl that shatters into a million pieces. When he arrives at the studio at seven, Leo already knows that things aren’t going to go his way. Not even Pedro’s brightly coloured polkadot bowtie can brighten his mood.

 

It’s not even lunchtime when one of the irons explodes on him and sends a wave of hot steam and boiling water over his left arm. Leo hisses and a second later a crowd has formed around him. He wants to say that he’s fine, it doesn’t hurt that bad, but Andrés won’t have it and before anyone else can move or say anything, Xavi appears.

 

“Get this fucking thing fixed,” he barks and Leo can’t help but flinch, because he doesn’t look happy, he looks downright annoyed and Leo fears it might be his fault. “Does nothing in this shithole work properly?” Then he storms off, Andrés rushing after him, and Javier carefully takes Leo by the arm and takes him downstairs.

 

Pipita awaits him with a grin. When he sees Leo’s arm, it dies, but only a little. “Fuck, man. What’ve you done to your arm?”

 

“Accident with the iron,” Javier answers for him, then hurries off back to work.

 

“Well,” Pipita says. “Guess it’s your lucky day, because I’m the first aid guy.”

 

Leo tries not to look surprised as he clutches his forearm. “Very lucky indeed,” he mumbles, sits down on a chair and watches as Pipita scrambles for a box in the drawer of a sturdy desk. He’s never really been on the ground floor, he notices now; except for the front desk, he hasn’t seen much of it. Now Leo looks around, sees how quiet and calm and _peaceful_ it is in comparison to the second floor – it feels unfamiliar.

 

“You can cry if you want,” Pipita says seemingly out of the blue. “Everybody here has a breakdown once in a while.”

 

“I have a thick skin,” Leo replies, thinking that it might be an ironical thing to say, since the majority of the skin on his arm is now practically raw flesh.

 

“Apparently,” Pipita grins. “Xavi as boss and Villa as boyfriend? You must have nerves of steel.”

 

Leo flinches when Pipita smears some cooling paste onto his skin. “He’s not –” and he has clear his throat, almost cough, because fuck, it really hurts. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

Pipita is persistent. “Then what is he?”

 

“I don’t – not anything, really. Does he have to be?” Because Leo is at a point where he doesn’t know anymore. He’s never been there; that moment when definitions suddenly become important.

 

“It would be beneficial,” Pipita says, wrapping gauze bandage around Leo’s arm. “You know, Eze and I didn’t really talk about that stuff. Maybe that’s why he found it easy to leave. Communication is supposed to be important, not that I would know, I never learn from my mistakes.” He shrugs it off like it’s nothing, but Leo gets the feeling that whatever had happened with Eze has hit Pipita harder than he wants to admit.

 

Leo is also quite sure he doesn’t learn from his mistakes either.

 

 

 

 

In the end, Leo figures there’s only so much he can do. He knows where he stands and what he wants to be his focus and he thinks Villa has his own life. Somewhere along the way, coincidentally, they met and somewhere down the line they will part again, because it’s inevitable and that’s just how life goes.

 

 

 

 

Leo falls asleep on the couch after dinner. A flash awakes him and when he blinks his eyes open, he can see Kun sitting in an armchair with camera in hand. Leo groans.

 

“You’re a creep,” he says, in a fond way, because they don’t give each other much in that way. Kun lets Leo draw him when he sleeps and in return Leo’s gotten used to his best friend’s camera being an extension of his arm.

 

“I’m an artist,” Kun grins. “Show some respect.” He drops his camera on his lap and then his glance shifts slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Leo’s known Kun so many years that he can tell there’s something going on.

 

“Everything alright?” he asks, because Kun has started to chew on his lips.

 

“Yeah, man. I mean, I guess everything’s alright, I just – I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

 

Leo raises his eyebrows at him, sits up. A cushion falls to the ground. “Do what?”

 

Kun shrugs. “Editorial photography, fashion, that polished stuff,” he says. “That’s just not why I started to take pictures and I guess – I guess I just want something that I really love, something I can be proud of. Silva is great, but – I want something I can love as much as you love your work. If I’ll be doing it all my life, then I might as well love it, right?”

 

Leo guesses that’s probably true.

 

“I’ve sent my portfolio around,” Kun continues before Leo can say anything. “Something cultural, maybe I’ll travel, take Giannina with me. Might be nice, don’t you think?”

 

It seems simple, but Leo knows it’s not. They’ve always been together, from when they met at school up until now. They’d left Argentina together, they’d left London together and somehow Leo has never really thought about them parting any time soon. Now he realizes – he understands he’s been selfish when it comes to Kun, had taken it for granted that Kun had photographed his collection, followed him to Barcelona, taking up fashion photography. Leo doesn’t want Kun to feel any obligation to stay. He’s grown up. No older, taller boys are going to beat him up.

 

“You know I’ll support you whatever you decide to do,” Leo says, truly means it and it makes him beyond happy to see Kun smile gratefully as soon as the words have left his lips.

 

 

***

 

 

“Sometimes I think you believe I’m completely oblivious,” Xavi says. “Or stupid. I don’t know what I prefer.”

 

“You know I don’t believe either,” Villa replies, tired eyes looking at Xavi from across the room. Xavi still hurries around, rearranges polaroid pictures on the wall, scribbles down notes, types. Villa isn’t so sure why he actually came to the studio – but then of course that’s a lie, he knows it just too well.

 

Xavi spins around, looks at him, way too alert for this time of night. “Really, David? You must think I’m an idiot if you think I haven’t noticed. And Pepe is my friend, too.”

 

There’s only one direction for this conversation to head. Villa shrugs it off anyway, doesn’t understand why Xavi makes a big deal out of this, and in the back of his mind he thinks that Pepe really does need a muzzle.

 

“What’s it to you, Xavi? Why do you care?”

 

“I already told you,” he answers, sounding impatient, but patience has never been Xavi’s strongest suit. “He’s good. And with a little more time he will be great. But you just had to pick him, didn’t you? You couldn’t just find someone else to play with.”

 

Xavi is stressed. His brain to mouth catalyst isn’t set to function, Villa is perfectly aware of that and he’s used to it too. But he’s not an object, some dummy that just sits there and looks good and right now, Xavi is making him fucking angry.

 

“I’m not playing with anyone. I never have. Fucking Christ, Xavi, you make me sound like I’m some slut. And I haven’t _picked_ him to spite you. It’s not all about you.”

 

Xavi lets out a dry laugh. “It’s not all about you either, Villa,” and he sounds tired, not because of a lack of sleep. It’s a deeper kind of fatigue, one that Villa knows well.

 

“We’re back to square one, then?” he asks, knowing the answer already.

 

“I guess we are.” Xavi walks over, leans against his desk and Villa feels a feels a stab of sadness, a hint of disappointment, defeat even. “After all this time, you still don’t get it. Or maybe you do, but you refuse to accept it. And that’s why you will leave him like you left me.”

 

Villa shakes his head. “I didn’t leave you, Xavi. You pushed me out.” He rubs his hands over his tired eyes, gets up with stiff limbs. “Six years. I didn’t just walk away from that; so don’t make it sound like I did.” He turns to the door. “And I’m not playing. I actually –” but then Villa breaks off, thinks Xavi doesn’t believe him anyway, and leaves the atelier.

 

 

***

 

 

Paris is knocking on their front door. It’s almost end of February, almost time to pack up and take anything unfinished with them. Leo’s worked two Saturdays in a row and despite their rather tense last encounter, Villa meets him outside the studio when he finishes and they walk around Barcelona in the dark, go back to his apartment. One time they sleep with each other and spend all Sunday in bed. The other time they don’t and to Leo, it’s scarily domestic and frighteningly _normal_ and it unsettles him so much he can’t sleep, so he does what he’s familiar with, grabs the small sketchbook he always carries around, settles against the headboard and lets his pen fly over the paper.

 

Eventually, Villa wakes up.

 

“You’re weird,” he says, fondly and voice thick with sleep. “Why do you have this with you all the time?”

 

“I just,” Leo replies, “I just do. I keep it in my bag.”

 

“You’re doing it again,” Villa says and frowns.

 

“Doing what?”

 

“You’re getting your spikes up. One minute everything is just fine and the next second, you’re all defensive again.”

 

Leo looks away, subconsciously pulls the sheets tighter around his bare body. “I’m not defensive. I just gave you an answer, didn’t I?”

 

Villa looks at him, he can feel his burning gaze. Then, “Whatever,” and the duvet rustles, floorboards creek and just a minute later the door falls shut.

 

Normally, Leo would’ve stayed behind, staring at the door. He can’t say why he gets up and leaves the room. Villa is in the kitchen, a glass of water untouched in front of him, both hands grabbing the kitchen island. Leo doesn’t know what to say, not sure what he actually did wrong in the first place, so he just steps up to him and presses himself against Villa’s back, buries his face in his bare neck and breathes in.

 

Villa doesn’t say anything either, just sighs, and intertwines their fingers.

 

 

 

 

Leo’s been to Paris before, but he doesn’t know the city. All he knows are insides of small, rented studios with wheeled-in industrial sewing machines, bare walls, high ceilings. Puyol has organised for their temporary studio to be just a block away from the small apartment building where everyone is staying, so that as little time as possible is wasted. They drop their bags, don’t even bother to unpack, and go straight to work. Five days.

 

He knows that Villa’s in Paris too, not only doing Xavi’s show but a few others as well, big names that are slowly introducing menswear into their repertoire; names have been dropped. He’s most likely staying in a hotel that is not only miles away by distance. Leo doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think too much about Villa for that matter, because everything is too important and he can’t afford to get distracted.

 

On the first day, everyone is still very much composed. On the second day, even Andrés loses his cool.

 

 

 

 

When the door slams violently against the wall, making coat hangers fall off rails, Leo expects anyone but Andrés to storm in with an unusually red face and glaring expression. The two seamstresses they’ve hired for a few days curse in French as they steady their machines, probably expecting and apology of some sort, but Andrés doesn’t pay attention to the sour looks on their faces, just heads for the exit, fumbling in his pockets.

 

“I swear, one day I’m going to –” but whatever it is Andrés is going to do, Leo doesn’t understand, because the other is already out the door and down the antique staircase that leads to the backyard.

 

He catches Pedro’s eyes and shrugs and a second later, Xavi storms in and out of the room in the same demeanour, apparently heading after Andrés and it’s painfully obvious that every single person in the room is trying to overhear what they’re saying – or rather, shouting at each other. Everything in the room stills as their voices echo upwards from the yard downstairs. They’re only snippets of sentences, slightly muffled, but it doesn’t sound too good. Leo’s never heard Andrés shout like that.

 

The exchange doesn’t last long; it’s short and heated and a minute later, Xavi stomps up the stairs again, crosses the room with an expression that could make Lagerfeld flinch, and slams the door to the adjoining room shut again. Leo doesn’t realize he’s held his breath until he releases it.

Cautious looks are thrown about until Leo gets up from where he’s been crouching next to a mannequin. He grabs a flask of coffee that Bastian has dubbed emergency-caffeine and heads downstairs.

 

He finds Andrés pacing back and forth, glimmering cigarette in his hand, and continuously rubbing his neck with his left hand. Leo wordlessly hands him the flask and Andrés takes a long sip.

 

“Anything I can do?” Leo asks immediately. They need to safe time whatever they do and it’s clear that no, it’s not alright, so he doesn’t bother asking about that. But Leo can help; can take some work off Andrés’s hands, or Xavi’s, if that’s the problem.

 

Andrés shakes his head, closes his eyes and inhales deeply. A few silent beats pass between them. Leo can hear an old Vespa come to life.

 

“I quit two years ago,” Andrés says suddenly, motioning towards his almost finished cigarette. “This is the first I’ve had since.” Leo doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps quiet and eventually, Andrés continues. “Sometimes I want to hit him. Really hard, right across the face. He just –” and he takes a deep breath, “He just doesn’t get people. He doesn’t know that if he keeps pushing and pushing and pushing, things are going to burst, break.” Andrés flips the cigarette bud to the ground, then turns to face him. “You need a thick skin, Leo. A really thick skin, or –” He makes a waving motion with his hand and Leo isn’t sure that he can actually follow.

 

“I’ll try,” he replies, because that’s all he can ever do, ever promise and Andrés smiles softly before having a bit more coffee from the flask.

 

“You don’t need to,” Andrés says. “You’re one of the few who get it; one of the few who see and who listen. Be careful not to lose that.”

 

Leo doesn’t think he could.

 

 

 

 

He gets three hours of sleep that night.

 

 

 

 

The final fittings are the next day. And it’s complete and utter mayhem. Leo doesn’t count how many cups of coffee he has throughout the day, how many blisters grace his fingers and how many times someone – anyone – shouts in his direction. He doesn’t take it personal, but it does dampen his spirit for a second before he can remind himself that everybody is so much on edge that every request sounds like a command and every word resembles a harsh bark.

 

Abidal reels in twenty plus models, lets them walk up and down, dodging boxes and shoes and unfinished accessories. Xavi doesn’t look too happy with most of them – if Leo’s honest, Xavi hasn’t looked happy in a while -, but before he can snap, Victor pulls him out of the room and leaves Andrés and Abidal to it.

 

There’s a rushed undertone to everything that happens and it makes Leo’s heart beat painfully, in an erratic staccato. He has to steady his hands before resuming to stitch the hem of a coat. The thread rips halfway through. Leo sighs, pulls everything out, and starts anew, head throbbing.

 

It’s already getting dark when the male models arrive, apparently too late, but Leo couldn’t say; he hasn’t had a clue about time or day for a while. Xavi is back in the room and even Piqué doesn’t dare to joke around. When Leo sees Villa, he notices that he hasn’t thought about him for two days. And he realizes with unease that it makes him feel guilty. Maybe he is obliged to and maybe he isn’t; Leo can’t decide and it’s not the time to decide anyway, not with other things waiting – more important things.

 

Leo can easily pick out Xavi’s voice from all the other noises in the room.

 

“You lost half an inch off your hips,” he says directed at Villa. “I told you not to lose any weight.”

 

He doesn’t have the time to lift his gaze, but Leo can tell that Villa rolls his eyes at Xavi.

 

“Fucking hell, Xavi, relax. It fits just fine.”

 

“That’s what you say. We need an extra hole in the belt. And where is the bloody jacket that goes with this outfit?”

 

“Pedro’s doing the pad-stitching just now,” Andrés chimes in. “It got a bit messed up during transport.”

 

“Then tell him to hurry up.”

 

Xavi says it and leaves the room again, Abidal and Victor hurrying after him. The door slams, the machines stutter and somewhere, a box of pins falls to the floor. Leo sees Pedro shrink in his seat.

 

“Right guys,” Andrés continues after a rather awkward silence. “Lighten up, we’re doing just fine.”

 

“How about you tell _him_?” Piqué says and takes off his shirt, revealing flawlessly tanned skin and perfectly trained torso, yet Leo suddenly can’t take his eyes off Villa, who has folded his bare arms in front of his chest, trousers low on his hips, glaring at the door that has just shut behind Xavi.

 

“Cut him some slack,” Andrés says. “He’s under more pressure than you can imagine.” And he seems honestly startled when Villa huffs all of a sudden.

 

“He needs to grow up.”

 

“We all do.”

 

Andrés and Villa look at each other for a moment and Leo feels like there might be some unresolved tension there, an underlying challenge almost, but Villa shrugs it off, literally.

 

“Whatever. I think we all need coffee, so I’ll get the next round, alright?”

 

Andrés nods, hurries over to help Pedro, Piqué turns to chat with the other models still being fitted by Javier and styled by Dani and everybody seems occupied, so it goes unnoticed that Villa turns around and catches Leo’s gaze.

 

“You coming?”

 

Leo glances around once more, glances at the coat and the still unfinished hem and the recently ripped thread and decides that Villa needs help carrying all this coffee he’s going to buy. He tells himself that there’s no ulterior motive.

 

 

 

 

Of course there is one and Leo gets the feeling that coffee is also only second on Villa’s priority list when he pins him to a wall as soon as they’ve left the studio and cold but soft lips descend on his.

 

“You look awful,” Villa practically mumbles down his throat and the back of Leo’s head hits the stone.

 

It suddenly hits him how tired he actually is and how stressed and that his entire body is shaking like a leaf and he hadn’t even noticed all days; the sun’s already disappeared. Villa drapes an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close in an almost possessive manner as they walk to the small café at the corner of the street, and he keeps Leo close even when they wait for the impressive order, tracing his fingers up and down Leo’s spine.

 

“There’s some _Harper’s Bazaar_ party tonight. The usual fashion crowd. I think you’d enjoy it.”

 

Leo wonders if that’s Villa’s way of asking him out. And sure, Leo’s certain he would enjoy it, but he doubts that he can leave work at this crucial stage, even if it’s just for a few hours. “I have to work,” he replies and lowers his gaze, looks at his battered shoes where the soles are already peeling off; next to Villa’s shiny _Balenciaga_ trainers.

 

“All night?”

 

He shrugs. “I can’t say. Maybe. We’ve only got a little more than a day.”

 

Villa takes his chin, makes Leo face him, engulfed by the smell of ground coffee beans. “Just a few hours won’t make a difference. At least promise me you’ll try to get away.”

 

But Leo can’t promise that. He can’t. Because he knows if he had the choice, he’d choose to stay. When he doesn’t answer, Villa sighs.

 

“Well. It’s not far from here, _Palais de Tokyo_. Just give me a call whenever you get there.”

 

 

 

 

They walk back in silence. Later, when Villa and the other models have long gone, Andrés allows Leo to leave too. But Leo sees the rails of coats and jackets and skirts that still need to be hemmed and pressed – and he volunteers to stay.

 

 

 

That night, Leo doesn’t sleep at all.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Villa knows he’s not coming. If he’s being honest, he probably knew it before he even asked. Yet he still can’t help checking his watch every few minutes. He makes smalltalk, shakes hands, puts on the usual smile whenever there’s a camera close by. But he doesn’t get it; doesn’t get how anyone could be so obsessed. Villa is familiar with it of course, he thinks Xavi might even be worse, which doesn’t mean he understands or approves.

 

He just simply doesn’t get it. He’s a hard worker and he likes to keep busy, but Villa also believes in a balanced life and nobody can work all the time without eventually cracking. He guesses Xavi might be close; he’s sure Leo is on his way too.

 

Villa thinks he gets it to a certain extent. It almost fills him with envy that some people are lucky enough to find something that fills them completely. In Xavi’s case, fashion is enough and it’s always been enough. He doesn’t know how Andrés has managed to hold on for so long, how he still holds on; Villa hadn’t been able to take it. He tried, for a very long time and with all genuineness. But to Xavi, he’d just been second best. Now that they’re friends, Villa can joke about it. It hadn’t been so funny then.

 

He’d thought Leo might be different. But maybe the resemblance to Xavi was what had drawn Villa to him in the first place. The same quiet determination, hidden passion and uncompromising dedication. Leo is young and so different too, but maybe not enough, and this whole thing is probably proof that Villa hasn’t moved on as much as he wanted to.

 

“Shouldn’t you leave the frown lines to King Karl?”

 

Villa turns to the left. “ _Chanel_ is three days away, I’m sure he will recover.”

 

Llorente throws his head back and laughs, curls bouncing on top of his tall form. “He’s probably indestructible anyway,” and then he winks. “Are you doing _Chanel_ this year?”

 

He shakes his head. “I’m only doing _Gaultier_ and _Balenciaga_ this time. And Xavi’s.”

 

Llorente flashes a smile. “Of course. Are you guys still –”

 

“No,” Villa cuts him off quickly. “Not for a while now. And don’t tell me you’re sorry.”

 

“I won’t,” Llorente answers, moving closer, but maybe Villa is just imagining it. He’s had a lot to drink. “Because I’m not.” His voice is right next to his ear. “Do you want to get out of here? I can’t bear Ronaldo bragging about the _Armani_ campaign any longer.”

 

For a brief moment, Villa sees Xavi’s face in front of him, sees _Leo’s_ face, feels angry and disappointed and just fucking frustrated, then he empties his drink and all of that is gone. Fuck this, Villa thinks. He doesn’t settle for second best.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Leo jerks awake and quickly shakes his head, forcing his mind back to function. It’s almost deadly quiet. Pedro has fallen asleep in the chair opposite him. His eyes are blurry and yet he lets them roam the room that is surprisingly empty. Xavi is sitting at a sewing machine, pinning. Their eyes meet.

 

“The others are getting breakfast,” he says and Leo turns to the windows. There’s a faint glow on the horizon. He looks back at Xavi, who is now sewing the last piece together and Leo remembers working for designers who didn’t do anything, who didn’t care.

 

But now he sees Xavi and the endless stress and fatigue surrounding him and it’s all drowned out by sheer will and drive and passion. And it’s a weird thought that occurs to him, but Leo suddenly thinks that he is right where he’s supposed to be.

 

 

 

***

 

 

In the bright light of a Parisian sun, it doesn’t look so simple anymore. Villa wakes up with a pounding headache. Llorente’s heavy arm lies loosely across his chest. He shrugs it away, can still taste the vodka on his tongue and something else and gathers his clothes that are lying on a pile on the floor of the hotel room, gets dressed.

 

And suddenly just knows where he wants to go and what he needs to do.

 

 

 

Villa knows he’s being dramatic when he storms into Xavi’s temporary studio, but he ignores the stunned faces, ignores Leo – fucking hell, _Leo –_ and slams the door shut behind him. Xavi looks up from his provisional desk, scattered with polaroids, and raises his eyebrows at him.

 

“What –“ the designer starts, but Villa cuts him off.

 

“Fuck you, Xavi,” Villa spits at him, perfectly aware that he’s being unreasonable, but he’s held his composure for so long and now he just can’t. “Honestly. Fuck. You.”

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Xavi gets up and walks around his desk, scarf dragging on the floor and it itches in Villa’s fingers; itches because he wants to take the piece of fabric and place it around Xavi’s neck. Maybe he’s still drunk.

 

“You are what’s wrong with me,” he bites back and steps up to Xavi until their chests are almost touching. “You and your bloody obsessions with fashion and precision and perfection and _me._ You don’t want me, but you don’t want me to have anyone else. So you get your claws on Leo and lull him in. It’s fucking _fashion_ , Xavi. Just fashion, but you tell him his life’s depending on it or some crap.”

 

Villa expects Xavi to shout back at him, because Xavi isn’t one to stay quiet and he isn’t one to handle criticism too well. But Xavi just quietly assesses him for a few minutes, then he sighs and shakes his head. It makes Villa more than angry.

 

“You left me, David, so don’t tell me I didn’t –”

 

“You didn’t care,” Villa interrupts him again. “All you ever cared for is designing and I don’t like being side-lined. It didn’t work out. And now that I care about someone else, you have to ruin that too.”

 

Xavi frowns. “It’s not my fault that you can’t compromise. And maybe you could move on if you weren’t so hung up on me.”

 

“I’m not hung up on you,” Villa says, refraining from gritting his teeth. “You bloody scarred me. And now Leo is turning out to be just like you. I bet you’re enjoying this.”

And knowing that Leo is in the other room, happily working like a slave makes his insides clench. His stomach is already in knots over the guilt.

 

“Don’t make this about him. You just can’t deal with the fact that he doesn’t put you on some bloody pedestal like the rest of the world. I’m not your problem and he isn’t your problem either. Your problem is that you’ve become used to having things your way.”

 

Xavi is about to turn towards his desk again when something inside Villa’s head snaps. Maybe it’s unfinished business, unresolved tension. Whatever it is, it makes him grab Xavi by the shoulders and crush their lips together in a desperate attempt to solve problems they’ve never talked about until now. And whatever it is, Xavi must feel it too. Their teeth clash and their hands roam and it’s overwhelmingly familiar, so fucking familiar that it makes Villa’s heart hurt.

 

He pushes Xavi back against the desk, tries to kill the images of Llorente, tries to ignore the feelings he might have for Leo, just focuses on Xavi, because it’s the thing he knows, it’s what he’s always done. It’s _easy_ and –

 

Hands push against his chest, push him away and Xavi’s face is still close, oddly pale but flushed, eyes dark and so alive and – what the hell are they even thinking?

 

“This isn’t going to solve anything,” Xavi says and frames Villa’s jaw, pulls him in for another brief and less aggressive kiss, then leans their foreheads together. “You know I love you.”

 

Villa sighs. “Just not enough.”

 

“Nothing’s ever enough for you,” Xavi replies. “But I guess we have that in common.”

 

It shouldn’t make him smile, but it does. “I guess you have to be a weird fuck to work in this industry. Just – don’t be such a gremlin to Andrés, alright?”

 

Xavi’s eyes go wide. “What?”

 

Villa can’t help but grin. “Oh come on. Even you can’t be that oblivious. Lord knows why he puts up with you every day and how he does it. He probably deserves a medal. So be nice.”

 

He takes a few steps back, feeling lighter, but there’s still something heavy on his conscience. “And I’m going to steal Leo for a few minutes.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

When Villa walks up to him and asks him to speak in private, Leo can feel everyone’s eyes on him. He’s also perfectly aware of Villa’s tense stance, his not so casual expression, and the strained tone of his voice.

The air is still fresh and crisp when they step outside. Leo doesn’t feel too well.

 

“I waited for you last night,” Villa starts and Leo feels a pang of guilt. “And I just want to be honest. I – I don’t usually get stood up. And I don’t run after anyone.” He puts his hands into his pockets, fidgets – which is an unusual sight. “I got frustrated, fed up; did something I shouldn’t have.”

 

It hits Leo. Maybe not unexpectedly, but it does hit him and it knocks the air out of his lung for a few seconds and he takes a moment to remember how to breathe and stay composed. He doesn’t know why he’s shocked. Villa was, is and always will be out of his league and he still doesn’t understand why he ever laid eyes on him.

 

“Okay,” he says, breathes. “Okay. I – I understand. I’m sorry I made you wait.”

 

Villa’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re – what?”

 

Leo swallows hard. “I know I’ve just been working and. You don’t need to apologize. It’s not like we’re – were – you know.”

 

“Exclusive?” Villa asks. “Why would you think that? Have I given you that impression?”

 

Leo shrugs. “Not really, no. It’s just – listen, I know who you are and I know who I am. I just didn’t think –”

 

“That I was really interested?” Villa huffs. “Come one, I practically chased after you. Can’t really say why, but I did. Usually people chase after me. I’m not used to people not wanting me, especially if I want them too.” He pauses and Leo feels his heartbeat increase. “Because I do. Want you. Like you. But I have no idea where you stand.”

 

Leo doesn’t know that either. And he guesses he has strained Villa’s patience and that somebody like _him_ doesn’t take that from some intern like Leo. But it’s not that he doesn’t want him too, and doesn’t like him just as much. Leo wants to tell Villa, but the words die halfway up his throat and nothing leaves his lips even though he tries.

 

“And you still don’t talk to me,” Villa continues. “I’m sorry, I really am. But you won’t even be angry with me. Don’t you care, or what is it?”

 

Leo opens his mouth and closes it again, and he feels backed against a wall, confronted with things he usually doesn’t deal with. It leaves him feeling oddly trapped. He wants to shout out, _Of course I care_ , but he’s not sure how to make Leo understand; thinks it might even be unfair to make him understand, because Leo can’t be who Villa wants him to be. He just can’t.

 

Villa just looks at him, probably hoping for an answer Leo doesn’t have. Then he sighs once again and rubs his face with his hands. “So where do we stand now? What do we do?”

 

_Why are you asking me?_ , Leo thinks. He doesn’t have the answers. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, because it’s all that will come out of his mouth.

 

“Of course,” Villa says and suddenly he’s right in front on Leo, framing his face, breath hovering over his lips. “I know you want this too; at least a part of you. But you’re always so detached. You’re never really _there_.” He leans forward, just briefly catches Leo’s lips, and Leo wants the moment to linger, to just freeze, but it doesn’t and soon, Villa has put a few steps between them – probably not just literally. “You give everything you have to fashion and fashion takes it all. And there’s just nothing left for me to keep of you.”

 

Villa zips up his jacket and Leo just feels dumbstruck.

 

“I’ll see you at the show.”

 

 

 

 

_“Are you okay?”_

Leo takes a drag of his cigarette. The emergency stash is almost zero. “I guess.”

 

_“Sure?”_ Kun doesn’t seem convinced. _“Do you want me come to Paris and beat the crap out of him.”_

“I’ll be fine. Really.”

 

_“Just don’t go blaming yourself again, okay? Or I’ll beat you up.”_

Leo is pretty sure Kun means that.

 

 

 

 

Leo doesn’t sleep that night either. The show is at 1 pm sharp.

 

 

 

 

Backstage is manic. There are important people in the front row, people that need to be impressed in order for the show to be a success and Xavi checks every single on of the models before they go down the runway. It’s fifteen minutes of absolute mayhem with shoes and garments flying about, hairdressers and make-up artists re-touching their work, some photographers with flashing cameras. When the grand finale comes and Xavi is reluctant to leave backstage, Andrés gives him a shove and Villa pulls him out onto the runway to receive his applause. Xavi is back behind the curtain before Leo has counted to five. There’s a relieved smile on his face and it seems as if weights have been lifted off of his shoulders. Andrés pulls him into a rock solid hug and Xavi clings to him like a drowning man and together they sink to the floor, exhaustion taking over and Leo feels his legs give in too. Soon they’re all lounging on the floor, avoiding the press for now, smiling and breathing and so utterly drained.

 

“I’m going to drink my weight in wine now,” Xavi announces, leans back against a wall and drapes a casual arm around Andrés shoulders.

 

Andrés turns his head to face him. “Only if you also agree to eat your weight in macaroons.” He smiles at Xavi, bright and honest and so full of devotion that Leo’s chest feels tight. His socks have stripes.

 

 

 

 

The after-party is at a fancy restaurant just off the Champs Élysées. Leo is quite sure he can’t properly function anymore, but before he can even take a step, he’s dragged towards the bar by Pedro, Mario, Javier and Bastian and the first couple of drinks flow quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, Leo can see Xavi chatting to a tall man in an impeccable suit, bald head and silvery beard, who draws him into a firm hug, says something into his ears which evokes laughter from both. Andrés is always close-by.

 

Eventually Leo’s head starts to swim. He hasn’t slept or eaten anything proper in days, he hasn’t seen Kun and he misses him and the drinks are just getting to his head. He is heading for the terrace when Xavi sees him and waves him over. The smile still hasn’t left his face when he pulls Leo close and whispers a _Thank you_ into his ear. Leo wants to walk on after that, but Xavi keeps a hold of his arm, excuses himself and quickly leads him out the door.

 

The terrace is empty except for some stacked chairs and tables, with Paris still being quite fresh at this time of the year. Spring is on the horizon and during the day, Leo had smelled the sun, but not tonight. Tonight it’s sharp and cool; refreshing.

 

“I wanted to thank you in quiet,” Xavi says, takes out a cigarette and offers on to Leo who gladly accepts. The nicotine burns in his throat, but it wakes him up a little. “You were amazing, all of you guys were. And I’m sorry if I was a prick for most of the time.”

 

Leo chuckles. “You weren’t that bad,” he says and Xavi laughs, shaking his head.

 

“Oh no, I know how I get. I still hope you enjoyed it.”

 

“I did,” Leo replies. “And actually, it’s me who has to thank you for the opportunity. It’s been – it’s been inspiring.”

 

Xavi blows out some smoke and it circles his face, caresses such a genuine smile that makes Leo admire him even more. “I’m glad. Oh, and there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. I spoke to my investor, boss, whatever you want to call him. He’s upping the budget for next season. Which ultimately means I can also extend my team. And to be honest – not many people have impressed me like you have. I’d be happy to have you with us for the long run.”

 

Leo gapes. He truly does, mouth hanging open and Kun would mock him if he were there.

 

“You don’t have to answer now,” Xavi is quick to add. “Take your time, think about it. Really think.” He puts out his cigarette bud and moves towards the door. “You know, there’s something of beauty in everything. But not everyone is able to see that. It’s our job to make them see. But you have to realize one thing. What we do is important and it fills us with emotions, is incredibly expressive and creates new worlds – but in the end, it’s just clothes.”

 

Then he disappears inside.

 

 

 

 

Leo stays outside and empties his pack of cigarettes, pondering on everything that’s happened in the last few months, trying to grasp the surreality of it all. He sits down on the floor and crosses his legs, coldness creeping through his trousers, and when the door opens again a long while later, it feels like a déjà-vu. Villa sits down next to him and Leo hands him his last cigarette and they sit together in silence, each wrapped up in their own thoughts until finally, Leo’s voice follows his command.

 

“Xavi offered me a job,” he says, not looking to the side. “And that’s it, you know? Everything I’ve ever wanted, right there. I can’t give that up.” This time, it’s Villa who stays silent. “Fashion will always come first for me,” he continues. “But I know I need to balance that, make space for other things… I’ve always had space for Kun and – I can try and make some more.”

 

He turns his head and Villa is looking him straight in the eye, motion- and expressionless.

 

“I can’t promise anything,” Leo confesses eventually after a few moments of silence. “But I can try.”

 

At first, Villa doesn’t react. Then he blinks, looks back out into the night where somewhere the Eiffel Tower is sparkling like giant Christmas tree.

 

“I’ll be in New York for a few weeks,” he says then. “Working. I don’t know when I’ll be back in Barcelona.”

 

_Oh,_ Leo thinks. Maybe he should have expected that. He shouldn’t be surprised.

 

“But,” Villa suddenly adds before Leo gets lost in thoughts again, “I wouldn’t coffee or a walk in the rain once I get back.”

 

Leo smiles in remembrance and then somehow, Villa’s cold hands find his in the dark and they intertwine and he guesses it’s not perfect and it’s not ideal – but it’s a start.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

There’s a song stuck in his head and Andrés can’t help but hum quietly as he walks up to Xavi’s atelier with the latest reviews and magazine articles, all praising the collection and it makes him happy just to think that all the stress and hard work has paid off. It gives him strength and belief for the next round, to keep going, always at high speed, fast pace.

 

He sets everything down in front of Xavi, as well as a cup of steaming mocha and is ready to leave again, when Xavi holds him back by his hand. Andrés raises his eyebrows, puzzled, but stills and looks at Xavi expectantly.

 

“You know I’m just here because of you,” Xavi says, sounding so honest and profound that it makes his heart swell. He looks at their hands, watches as Xavi’s thumb softly drags across the back of his hand. “I could have never done it without you.”

 

Andrés smiles, squeezes his hand and quickly darts forward to tuck Xavi’s scarf back in place. “Don’t worry,” he replies. “I’ll always be here.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

When Leo gets back to the studio after one week off, Cesc is already behind the front desk, all crisp shirt, neatly pressed, spotless as always. Puyi is frowning over some paperwork with Pipita leaning over his shoulder, who looks up and flashes Leo a broad smile. On the first floor, Victor is shouting on the phone, Dani is sporting his latest pair of sequined trousers and Abi is rolling his eyes at both of them. The second floor is quieter than usual. Pedro is still on holiday, Mario’s gone back to Germany and the patterncutters are still enjoying another few days off work.

Leo puts his bag down, hangs up his jacket and hears feet on the stairs. He can see Andrés’s blue socks before he can see his relaxed face.

 

“Morning, Leo,” he smiles. “Ready for the next season?”

 

“Always,” Leo replies.

 

And it’s an odd feeling, a strange moment where he thinks that everything has fallen into place and is exactly how it’s supposed to be.


End file.
